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je Hake Cngltsf) Classics 

REVISED EDITION WITH HELPS TO STUDY 

TWICE-TOLD TALES 

BY 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 
BY 

ROBERT HERRICK 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 

AND 

ROBERT WALTER BRUERE 

ASSOCIATE IN ENGLISH, THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 


SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO NEW YORK 





Copyright 1903, 1919, by 
Scott, Foresman and Company 


V 


0£C -6 1919 


ROBERT O. LAW COMPANY 

EDITION BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
CHICAGO, U. S. A. 


©Cl. A 5 8 5 9 4 8 


PREFACE 


$ 


5 


The text followed in this edition of the Twice-Told 
Tales is that of the first copyright edition, 1851. The 
editors have supplied a brief biographical account of 
Hawthorne and a short essay upon the story-teller’s 
art as displayed in these tales. Nothing is to be found 
in the text of the stories which requires further 
explanation than the use of an unabridged dictionary- 
will fully supply. The editors suggest, therefore, that 
after reading the biographical sketch the student 
should turn at once to the stories and read several of 
them before studying the critical essay. Then after 
reading thoroughly the remaining parts of the intro- 
duction he may return to the stories already read for a 
second, more careful perusal. In this way the student 
will not lose the enjoyment which should come from a 
first unfettered reading of the tales, and he will obtain 
the criticism of the author. wh.feu§ it should be found — 
after and not before the creative work itself has been 
read. 


The Editors, 









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CONTENTS 


PAGE 

• 5 


Preface 

Introduction 

I. Biographical Sketch 
II. Hawthorne’s Literary Work 
The Gray Champion . 

Sunday at Home t . 

The Wedding KnelJL . 

The Minister’s Black Veil . 

The May- Pole of Merry Mount 
The Gentle Boy . 

Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe 
Little Annie’s Ramble . 

Wakefield 

A Rill from the Town Pump . 
The Great Carbuncle 
T he Prophetic Pictures 

David Swan 

Sights from a Steeple . 

The Hollow of the Three Hills 
Ti-ie Toll-Gatherer’s Day 
The Vision of the Fountain . 
Fancy’s Show Box .... 
Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment 
Legends of the Province, House 
Howe’s Masquerade . 

Edward Randolph’s Portrait 
Lady Eleanore’s Mantle . 

Old Esther Dudley 



9 

. 20 
35 - 

• 47 
55 

. 66 
83 

• 97 
137 
152 
162 
174 
182 
200 
218 
226 
234 
241 
249 
256 
264. 

277 

295 

210 

329 


7 


8 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Haunted Mind 343 

The Village Uncle 349 

The Ambitious Guest 364 

The Sister- Years 377 

Snowflakes 386 

The Seven Vagabonds . . . . . . . 39 3 

The White Old Maid>. ...... 414 

Peter Goldthwaite's Treasure 428 

Chippings with a Chisel 455 

The Shaker Bridal . . 469 

Night Sketches 477 

Endicott and the Red Cross 485 

The Lily's Quest 495 

Footprints on the Seashore 505 

Edward Fane's Rosebud 521 

The Threefold Destiny . . . „ . . .531 

Appendix 

Helps to Study 545 

Theme Subjects 552 

Suggestions for Class Reading .... 554 


INTRODUCTION 


i 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

New Nathaniel Hawthorne was of unmixed New 
England England descent. For two centuries and a 
Influence. q Uar t e r the Hawthorne family had lived and 
died in Salem, Mass., and “mingled their earthly substance 
^ith the soil, until no small portion of it must necessarily be 
akin to the mortal frame wherewith, for a little while, I walk 
the streets.’’ Until the novelist was nearly fifty years old, he 
had never set foot beyond the New England states, except 
once on a brief journey to Niagara. The seven years of his 
residence in Europe late in life gave birth to but one of his 
important works, The Marble Faun. Family history and tradi- 
tions brought his imagination peculiarly close to the Puritan 
colony governed so sternly by its clergy, and to the more 
courtly society of the English governors. Scenes and figures 
peculiar to these pages of New England history fill almost all 
Hawthorne’s tales and romances. But in a much deeper sense 
is Hawthorne’s genius New England and Puritan. The 
special theme of his imagination is the soul in conflict with 
sin — the theme that his Puritan ancestors worked out in perse- 
cution and heroic self-denial. It is easy, however, to misun- 
derstand Hawthorne’s relation to this theme, and to consider 
him a gloomy moralist and a preacher. Hawthorne is not 
engaged in his romances in teaching us lessons about conduct, 
but rather in showing us the obscure land of the spiritual life, 
in making real by imaginative description the struggles of 
consciences, the joys and sorrows of souls. His inheritance 
from New England, which had been settled by men who came 
to its shore for freedom to worship God as they thought 
best, and to act as their consciences bade them, was this ab- 
sorption in the inner world of the soul. 


9 


10 


INTRODUCTION 


The first Hathorne (as the family most com- 

Ancestry. monly spelt the name until the novelist inserted 
the w) arrived in the New England colony with 
the famous governor Winthrop in 1630. This Major William 
Hathorne , was a younger son of an English family, whose 
family-seat, according to the novelist was “Wigcastle, Wigton” 
[probably a mistake for Wilton], “Wiltshire.” He seems to 
have been a man of some importance, for the people of Salem 
made him a grant of lands in 1636 to induce him to remove 
from Dorchester, . where he had first settled. That this first 
Puritan ancestor made a deep impression on his imaginative* 
descendant may be seen in the following sentences from “The 
Custom-House,” an introductory chapter to The Scarlet Letter. 

“The figure of that first ancestor, invested by family tradi- 
tions with a dim and dusky grandeur, was present to my 
boyish imagination, as far back as I can remember. It still 
haunts me, and induces a sort of home-feeling with the past, 
which I scarcely claim in reference to the present phase of the 
town. I seem to have a stronger claim to a residence here on 
account of this grave, bearded, sable-cloaked and steeple- 
crowned progenitor, — who came so early, with his Bible and 
his sword, and trode the unworn street with such a stately 
port, and made so large a figure, as a man of war and peace,— 
a stronger claim than for myself, whose name is seldom heard 
and my face hardly known. He was a soldier, legislator, 
judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the Puritanic 
traits, both good and evil. He was likewise a bitter persecutor, 
as witness the Quakers, who have remembered him in their 
histories, and relate an incident of his hard severity toward a 
woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to be feared, 
than any record of his better deeds, although these were many. 
His son, too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and made himself 
so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the witches, that their 
blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon him.” 

The persecutor of the Quakers, and his son, Colonel John 
Hathorne, the “witch- judge,” were the only members of the 
family to take prominent part in public life. Whether from 
a “curse incurred by them — as the dreary and unprosperous 
condition of the race, for many a long year back would argue 
to exist,” or from some more common cause, the fortunes 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


11 


o ; the Hathorne family declined. “From father to son,” the 
novelist continues, “for above a hundred years they followed 
the sea; a gray-headed shipmaster, in each generation retiring 
from the quarter-deck to the homestead, while a boy of four- 
teen took the hereditary place before the mast. . . . The 
boy, also, in due time, passed from the forecastle to the cabin, 
spent a tempestuous manhood, and returned from his world- 
wanderings, to grow old, and die, and mingle his dust with 
the natal earth.” The sixth Hathorne in direct descent from 
the Puritan major died while on a voyage in 1808, four years 
after the birth of his only son Nathaniel. 

Salem, where Hawthorne was born and where 
Salem. he passed more years of his life than in any 

other spot, had in the novelist’s lifetime already 
lost its early importance. Once it shared with Portland and 
Portsmouth and New Bedford the consideration as a seaport 
that New York and Boston have now usurped. To-day, 
the extensive, crumbling wharves, and the comfortable, even 
stately, colonial houses on its winding, elm-shaded streets, 
give evidence of the prosperity of the old times. “In m> 
native town of Salem,” writes Hawthorne in “The Custom- 
House,” “at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days 
of old King Derby, was a bustling wharf, but which is now 
burdened with decayed warehouses, and exhibits few or no 
symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps, a bark or brig, 
half-way down its melancholy length discharging hid£s, or, 
nearer at hand, a Nova Scotia schooner, pitching out her 
cargo of firewood, . . . .” In another passage of the same 
chapter, Hawthorne speaks more intimately of his birthplace: 

“ This old town of Salem — my native place, though I have 
dwelt much away from it, both in boyhood and maturer years 
— possesses, or did possess, a hold on my affections, the force 
of which I have never realized during my seasons of actual 
residence here. Indeed, so far as its physical aspect is con- 
cerned, with its flat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly with 
wooden houses, few or none of which pretend to architectural 
beauty, — its irregularity, which is neither picturesque nor 
quaint, but only tame, — its long and lazy street lounging weari- 


12 


INTRODUCTION 


somely through the whole extent of the peninsula, with 
Gallows Hill and New Guinea at one end, and a view of the 
almshouse at the other, — such being the features of my native 
town, it would be quite as reasonable to form a sentimental 
attachment to a disarranged checker-board. And yet, though 
invariably happiest elsewhere, there is within me a feeling for 
old Salem, which, in lack of better phrase, I must be content 
to call affection. The sentiment is probably assignable to the 
deep and aged roots which my family has struck into the 
soil.” 

This family attachment to Salem — “the mere sensuous sym- 
pathy of dust for dust” — doubtless was helpful to the imagi- 
native life of the novelist, but the rich, somewhat exclusive 
society of the town gave him little human companionship. 

Hawthorne’s mother, being left a widow, with 
Early Life. on ^ a sma ll estate for her support, went to 
live in her father’s house on Herbert street, 
just behind the Hathorne homestead on Union street. Here, 
in the Manning household, Nathaniel Hawthorne grew up, 
receiving his early education at the Salem public schools. 
When the boy was fourteen, Mrs. Hawthorne removed to the 
home of a brother in Raymond, Maine, a small village on 
Sebago lake. In this wild country, young Hawthorne spent 
an invigorating year, sailing, fishing, on skating on the lonely 
lake, and to these solitary days in the woods the novelist later 
attributed his habits of seclusion and shyness. In 1819, he 
was in Salem once more, living with another uncle and pre- 
paring for college under the tutolship of Worcester, now 
famous as the lexicographer. When Hawthorne was seven- 
teen, he entered Bowdoin College, and graduated in the class 
of 1825. Among his companions in the secluded little New 
England college were Longfellow (whom he seems to have 
known only slightly at college), his life-long friend Bridge 
(to whom we are indebted largely for the publication of Haw- 
thorne’s first book, Twice-Told Tales), and President Franklin 
Pierce, for whom the novelist felt a sincere affection. Bow- 
doin College has always held a distinguished name among 
New England colleges, and early in our century was con- 
sidered one of the foremost institutions of learning in 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


13 


America. Although Hawthorne did not excel in the studies 
of the curriculum, he stood well in his class on graduation. 
An early tale, Fanshawe, for a long time out of print, reflects 
the author’s college days, and its merit is sufficient to give 
ground for Bridge’s prediction that Hawthorne was to be a 
writer of fiction. 

Twelve Twelve silent, uneventful years followed the 
Years of college time, while Hawthorne was maturing 
Waiting. and seeking to find a way to a giving by his 
pen. During this period, he lived for the most part at Salem 
with his mother and sisters. What Hawthorne felt about 
Salem, with its “chilliest of social atmospheres,” may be gath- 
ered from the passages cited above. To understand this por- 
tion of his life, indeed to appreciate fully the growth of his 
genius, one must read the fragmentary record of thoughts and 
experiences in the American Note-Books, whose entries begin 
now. Later, in 1840, after his escape into a more active life, 
Hawthorne wrote of these early years : 

“ Union Street, — Here I sit in my old accustomed chamber, 
where I used to sit in days gone by. . . . Here I have 

written many tales, — many that have been burned to ashes, 
many that doubtless deserved the same fate. This claims to be 
called a haunted chamber, for thousands upon thousands of 
visions have appeared to me in it ; and some few of them have 
become visible to the world. If ever I should have a biog- 
rapher, he ought to make great mention of this chamber in 
my memoirs, because so much of my lonely youth was wasted 
here, and here my mind and character were formed ; and here 
I have been glad and hopeful, and here I have been despondent. 
And here I sat a long, long time, waiting patiently for the 
world to know me, and sometimes wondering why it did not 
know me sooner, or whether it would ever know me at all,,- — 
at least till I were in my grave. And sometimes it seemed as 

if I were already in the grave, with only life enough to be 

chilled and benumbed. But oftener I was happy, — at least, as 
happy as I then knew how to be, or was aware of the possibil- 
ity of being .” — American Note-Books, pp. 222, 223. 

Some of these tales that were not “burned to 
First ashes” began to appear in the Salem papers and 

Stories. * n t jj e ma g az j n es of the day. Later they were 

gathered together, and were published as the Twice-Told 


14 


INTRODUCTION 


Tales. These early sketches, which were rarely signed by 
the author’s real name, aroused little or no attention. Even 
in book form, the reception accorded them at first was slight 
and depressing to the young author, though English periodi- 
cals did him the compliment to pirate them. But “By-and- 
by, the world found me out in my lonely chamber, and called 
me forth,, — not, indeed, with a loud roar of acclamation, but 
rather with a still, small voice.” Of the early tales, “Night 
Sketches” a^d “Footprints on the Sea Shore” reveal the 
nature of his Salem life. It was extremely solitary, given 
over completely to reading, meditation, and composition. 
Doubtless, twelve such secluded years did much to implant 
that reserve and shyness which troubled the novelist all his 
life; but if, as he complains, he rarely came in contact with 
other lives when he needed companionship most, this pro- 
tracted quiet gave him an invaluable opportunity to master 
his art, and fashioned his genius in its own exquisite mould. 
As he himself says, continuing the passage quoted above : 

“ And now I begin to understand why I was imprisoned so 
many years in this lonely chamber, and why I could never 
break through the viewless bolts and bars ; for if I had sooner 
made my escape into the world, I should have grown hard and 
rough, and been covered with earthly dust. . . . But living 

in solitude till the fulness of time was come, I still kept the 
dew of my youth and the freshness of my youth.” 

His early tales, however, served to break his isolation in an 
unexpected manner. Some neighbors, the Misses Peabody, 
had read his stories with keen interest, and when they learned 
that the author was a fellow-townsman, sought his acquaint- 
ance. In 1835 Hawthorne became engaged to Miss Sophia 
Peabody, and. thereafter enjoyed helpful companionship, and 
had the spur of a definite ambition. He made an unsuccess- 
ful' attempt to put himself in a position to marry by doing 
editorial work for a Boston publisher', with whom he collab- 
orated on the well-knowji' Peter Parley’s Universal History. 
Then the historian Bancroft offered him a small post in the 
Boston custom-house. Here Hawthorne diligently supervised 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


15 


the weighing of coal and salt —duties with which he found 
it impossible to unite literary work. From this uncongenial 
task he was glad to be relieved by a change in the administra- 
tion. In 1841 he joined a little band of New England enthu- 
siasts, who had established a socialistic community at Brook 
Farm, in West Roxbury, a few miles out of Boston. 


Brook Farm offers an entertaining page in 
New England history. It was an attempt by 
some literary philosophers to found a society 



where each member should labor with his hands for the good 
i of all. The experiment at Brook Farm — it endured for nearly 
ten years — was remarkable among socialistic attempts at 
community-life for the distinguished men and women who 
cooperated in it, and for the high ideals and pure aims of its 
founders. The healthy companionship with many sorts and 
conditions of men, the out-door life of physical labor, and the 
bright talk at the Farm, especially by Margaret Fuller, — these 
were the chief benefits to Hawthorne. From his experience 
of this year, he produced later Thd Blithedale Romance, 
which, while not a faithful record of Brook Farm, is an 
imaginative picture of the people and their pursuits. Into the 
scheme Hawthorne had put about a thousand dollars, which 
comprised all his savings, in the hopes of marryirig and set- 
tling down permanently in the community- But a year’s resi- 
dence convinced him that community life was both unprac- 
tical and unnatural. In July, 1842, he married and went to 
live in the old village of Concord. 


Here Hawthorne spent four happy, peaceful 


The Old years, domiciled most appropriately in the old 
Manse. “imnon ” frill'in-o nirmn'iiro o 


“manse,” or village parsonage, on the banks of 


the Concord river, a few yards from the famous battleground. 
For companions in Concord, there were Ellery Channing, the 
recluse Thoreau, Emerson, and occasionally Miss Margaret 
Fuller. The entries in the Note-BoQks for this period show 
the intense delight which Hawthorne took in the pleasant 
country surrounding his new home. The tales which compose 
Mosses from an Old Manse were the chief fruit of this period. 


16 


INTRODUCTION 


These were so ill paid that the novelist was forced to look for 
some regular means of support for his family, and so, when 
his political friends found him a position in the Salem 
custom-house, he returned to his old duties. 

What he thought of Salem, of the custom-house, ahd of the 
effect of his position upon him, may. be found in the charming 
autobiographical sketch called “The Custom-House,” from 
which extracts have been made above. While he was calcu- 
lating “how much longer he could stay in the custom-house, 
and yet go forth a man,” he was relieved of his office by the 
political system of the civil service. 

Hawthorne was now forty-five years old. He 

The Scarlet had returned from his gentle experiments with 

Letter 

* the world in Boston and Brook Farm, married, 
with a growing family, and poor, — had returned to the room 
where he had waited twelve years for the public to recog- 
nize him. Hitherto that recognition had been slight enough ! 
But now, freed from his irksome duties, he gave himself to 
the task of composing a romance. “In this room,” he wrote 
later, “Fame was won.” For The Scarlet Letter, his first 
long ' romance, obtained for him immediately the reputation 
that had been so slow in coming. Henceforth there was never 
any question of a large and respectful audience for whatever 
he might produce. 

In a few months Hawthorne was at work on a new 
romance. He had moved to “an ugly red farm-house” in 
Lenox, in the hills of western Massachusetts, where, in the 
delights of country life, with his young family, he found 
quiet and inspiration for nfuch writing. Of his new romance, 
, The House of the Seven Gables, he wrote his publisher in 
October, 1850: “I sha’nt have the new story ready by No- 
vember, for I am never good for anything in the literary 
way till after the first autumnal frost, which has somewhat 
such an effect on my imagination that it does on the foliage 
here about me — multiplying and brightening its hues.” The 
book was finished in the following January. The Lenox 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCh 


17 


days produced also the two volumes of delightful children’s 
stories, The Wonder-Book and Tangleivood Tales. The 
Blithedale Romance, which has already been mentioned for 
its relation to Brook Farm, was written a year later in 
West Newton, Mass. Then Hawthorne returned to Concord, 
where he bought the “Wayside,” which stands on the 
Cambridge road not far from Emerson’s home. These years 
at Lenox, West Newton, and Concord were the most fruitful 
in the novelist’s career. 

In 1853, President Franklin Pierce appointed 
Europe, his old college friend consul in Liverpool, 
* last dears' England. Hawthorne, as we have seen, was 
not able to write under the disturbances of 
official duties, and it is not remarkable that of these seven 
years spent in Europe the only literary fruits were three vol- 
umes of Note-Books, and his fourth great romance. The 
Marble Faun — or Transformation, as it was named in the 
English edition — was conceived and first written in Italy, 
whither he had gone in 1857, on resigning the consulship. 
In i860, on the eve of the Civil War, Hawthorne returned to 
America to spend his last years in his Concord home. Here 
he began two long tales, The Dolliver Romance and Septimus 
Felton, which were never completed. The power for literary 
work had left him. The war distressed Hawthorne greatly. 
A lifelong Democrat, he had never sympathized with his 
literary friends, who were Abolitionists, and when the con- 
flict came, his heart was wrung over the inevitable tragedy. 
His health failed gradually; early in 1864 he undertook a 
short journey into New Hampshire with his friend Pierce. 
On the 18th of May, he died peacefully at Plymouth N. H. 
About his grave in thedittle Concord burial-ground of Sleepy 
Hollow gathered a group of distinguished Americans — Long- 
fellow and Lowell and Holmes, Emerson and Louis Agassiz, 
and other famous friends. Longfellow’s verses picture the 
quiet solemnity of the burial : 

How beautiful it was, that one bright day 
In the long week of rain ! 


18 


INTRODUCTION 


Though all its splendor could not chase away 
The omnipresent pain. 

The lovely town was white with apple-blooms, 
And the great elms o’erhead 
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms, 
Shot through with golden thread. 

Across the meadows, by the gray old manse. 
The historic river flowed ; 


I only see — a dream within a dream — 

The hill-top hearsed with pines. 

I only hear above his place of rest 
Their tender undertone, 

The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 

The voice so like his own. 

There in seclusion and remote from men 
The wizard hand lies cold, 

Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen, 

And left the tale half told. 

Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic power, 

And the lost clue regain? 

The unfinished window in Aladdin’s tower 
Unfinished must remain ! 

Of the two portraits in oil of Hawthorne 
Personal which exist, the one painted by Thompson in 
** * 1850 represents the face as smooth-shaven, 

rather oval in shape, with large eyes beneath a high fore- 
head, and a mobile, delicate mouth. Rowse’s crayon por- 
trait, which was done after Hawthorne’s return from 
Europe, is said to be a more vivid likeness. In the Concord 
public library is placed a bust executed by Miss Landor in 
Rome. Hawthorne’s friend Hilliard describes him as “tall 
and strongly built, with broad shoulders, deep chest, a 
massive head. . . . His face was as mobile and rapid in 

its changes of expression 'as that of a young girl.” Hilliard 
states that he was “the shyest of men,” yet “there was noth- 
ing morbid in his character or temperament. . . . No man 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


19 


of genius ever had less the infirmities of genius than he. . . . 
Hawthorne was physically one of the healthiest of men. His 
pulse always kept even music. He cared nothing for wine or 
tobacco, or strong coffee or strong tea. He was a sound 
sleeper and an early riser. He was never moody or fitful or 
irritable. He was never unduly depressed or unreasonably 
elated.” Mrs. Hawthorne wrote of him : “The airy splendor 
of his wit and humor was the light of his own home.” 

Hawthorne’s deep delight in out-door life and in the simple 
landscape of New England is constantly shown in his tales, 
and especially in the Note-Books, where he had the habit of 
entering observations made during his daily rambles. He 
remarks somewhere that he cannot write in summer, — “my 
impulse now is to be idle altogether — to lie in the sun, or to 
wander about and look at the revival of nature. ... If 
I had wings, I would gladly fly.” Although intensely shy by 
nature, he had a warm, companionable heart ; the genial bits 
of personal talk which fasten together the children’s tales, 
disprove that he was gloomy or sad, as popularly believed. 
The habits of the recluse fastened to him in early life were 
gradually thrown off after his marriage, and the tender con- 
sideration in which he was held by his personal friends proves 
his kindliness and gentleness. His life impressed those who 
knew him best with its sweetness, purity, and nobility. 

Hawthorne may best be studied directly in the various 
Note-Books, fogether with The Blithedale Romance, in which 
Miles Coverdale in part represents the author. Hawthorne 
was averse to having a biography made from the elements of 
his simple, retiring life. The most valuable portions of the 
biographies that have been* written are extracts from the 
novelist’s note-books and letters, which volumes the student 
is advised to consult directly. James Russell Lowell has 
given in the following lines the best criticism of his friend 
and brother artist: 

There is Hawthorne, with genius so shrinking and rare 

That you hardly at first see the strength that is there ; 

A frame so robust, with a nature so sweet. 


20 


INTRODUCTION 


So earnest, so graceful, so lithe, and so fleet, 

Is worth a descent from Olympus to meet; 

’ Tis as if a rough oak, that for ages had stood, 

With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood, 
Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, 
With a single anemone, trembly and rathe ; 

His strength is so tender, his wildness so meek, 

That a suitable parallel sets one to seek. 


When Nature was shaping him, clay was not granted 
For making so full-sized a man as she wanted ; 

So, to fill out her model, a little she spared 

From some finer-grained stuff for a woman prepared. 

And she could not have hit a more excellent plan 
For making him fully and perfectly man, 

— A Fable for Critics (1848). 

Also these lines from the poem Agassis (1874) : 

... . he from sympathy still held apart 

By shrinking over-eagerness of heart, 

Cloud charged with searching fire, whose shadows sweep, 
Heightened mean things with sense of brooding ill, 

And steeped in doom familiar field and hill, — 

New England’s poet, soul reserved and deep, 

November nature with a name of May, 

Whom high o’er Concord plains we laid to sleep, 

While the orchards mocked us in their white array, 

And building robins wondered at our tears, 

Snatched in his prime, the shape august, 

That should have stood unbent ’neath four-score years, 
The noble head, the eyes of furtive trust. 

All gone to speechless dust. 

II 

HAWTHORNES LITERARY WORK 
Like most great artists who have arrived at maturity, Haw- 
thorne passed through three well defined stages of develop- 
ment, each of which is broadly illustrated in his works. In the 
descriptive and historical sketches of his first years, he 
concerned himself with the outward aspect of the world, what 
Ruskin calls the childish perception of mere detail. The 
allegories of his second period, — the transitional period of dis- 
illusion and approaching maturity, — are the symbolistic repre- 
sentations of ideas abstracted and generalized from his own 


HAWTHORNE’S LITERARY WORK 


21 


course of life. Having their origin in introspection, they are 
the disguised analyses of the artist’s personal relation to the 
world, his attempts to interpret his individual history in 
terms of the universal experience. When he arrived at ma- 
turity, he escaped from the egotism of the allegories and again 
turned to the contemplation of the outside world; not, how- 
ever, as in the descriptive sketches, with the intention of por- 
traying its superficial aspect, but to search out the hidden laws 
of life and to find fitting illustrations for them. The character- 
istic productions of this period are the three great romances 
whose scenes are laid in New England. To assist the reader 
in following Hawthorne through these three stages .of his 
growth, and thus to enable him to view the separate volumes, 
and more especially the Twice Told Tales, in a larger per. 
spective, is the purpose of this brief sketch. 

1 

In 1837, when the first volume of the Twice Told Tales w?s 
published by his friend, Horatio Bridge, Hawthorne was 
thirty-four years old. For thirteen years and more he had 
been devoting himself to literature, with so little worldly suc- 
cess that he claimed for himself at that period the sobriquet 
of “ the obscurest man of letters in America.” Encouraged 
by the appreciation of his college-mates, he had printed, soon 
after his graduation from Bowdoin (v. Intr. p. 6), and at his 
own cost, a romance, called Fanshawe. But, although the 
book is still noteworthy for its many passages of sustained 
description, it is said to have found not a half-dozen readers in 
his day. His second volume, entitled Seven Tales of my 
Native Land, the publishers likewise rejected, and in a mood 
of depression (cf. “The Devil in Manuscript” and “The Jour- 
nal of a Solitary Man”), Hawthorne burned it. Then for a 
time he devoted himself to hack work, collaborating with the 
printer Goodrich upon Peter Parley’s Universal History 
(v. Intr. p. 8), and writing a series of elementary biographical 
sketches for children’s magazines (v. Biographical Sketches in 
the Riverside Edition). But for all these years of work, he 


22 


INTRODUCTION 


tells us, he received not enough to keep the numbness out of 
his fingers. There was nothing but the pleasure itself of com- 
position to stimulate him to further effort. So he wrote for 
the delight of writing and burned more than he published. 
Unhappily for us, he burned so relentlessly that almost noth- 
ing of his earliest period survives. We can only infer the 
subjects and the spirit of his youthful predilection from a 
dozen or so of descriptive sketches included among the Twice 
Told Tales, most of which, we may suppose, owed their pres- 
ervation to the obscurity of the magazines in which they 
originally appeared. 

In a letter written to Longfellow in appreciation of the 
poet’s enthusiastic review of the first volume of the Twice 
Told Tales, Hawthorne says that sometimes, through a peep- 
hole, he has caught a glimpse of the real world, and that the 
articles in which he has portrayed these glimpses please him 
.better than the others. The articles to which he here refers 
we know to be the purely descriptive sketches, which the reader 
will easily distinguish by their fresh-air, landscape quality, and 
their almost perfect freedom from knotty introspection. “Sun- 
day at Home,” “Little Annie’s Ramble,” “A Rill from the 
Town Pump,” “Sights from a Steeple,” “The Toll-gatherer’s 
Day,” “The Village Uncle,” “The Sister Years,” “Snowflakes,” 
“The Seven Vagabonds,” “Chippings with a Chisel,” “Night 
Sketches,” and “Footprints on the Seashore” are, no doubt, the 
portraits he had in mind when he spoke of his glimpses of the 
real world. If to this number we add the “Sketches from 
Memory,” in The Mosses from an . Old Manse, and 
perhaps, “Main, Street,” “Old News,” and a “Bell’s 
Biography,” from The Snow Image and Other Twice 
Told Tales, and the historical sketches which foreshad- 
owed the later romances (v. below), we shall probably 
have the entire list of pieces in which Hawthorne’s early 
artistic attitude and manner are preserved. They show that 
literature was a deliberate choice with him, not a matter of 
chance or compelling necessity. From the first he went about 
his craft in a business-like fashion. Finding that the life of 
Salem did not crowd in upon him, he went out upon the 


HAWTHORNE’S LITERARY WORK 


23 


highways, into the market-place, along the seashore, sketching 
as diligently as any young painter. Light and airy these 
portraits of his real world are, and yet extremely significant to 
the student of American literature. Till Hawthorne came, 
with his wholesome outlook, the writers of New England 
viewed the world as an evil dream or a temptation. Flowers 
that had not long been pressed between the leaves of the time 
worn volumes upon their study shelves, descriptions that did 
not enjoy a conventional justification, had no interest for them. 
One searches in vain in our earlier literature for any mention 
of the simple natural objects which give to our landscape its 
charm. But in Hawthorne’s work they are met with every- 
where. Consider, for example, the following passage from the 
American Note-book for June 18, 1835: 

“A walk in North Salem in the decline of yesterday after- 
noon, — beautiful weather, bright, sunny, with a western or 
northwestern wind just cool enough, and a slight superfluity 
of heat. The verdure, both of trees and grass, is now in its 
prime, the leaves elastic, all life. The grass-fields are plen- 
teously bestrewn with white-weed, large spaces looking as 
white as a sheet of snow, at a distance, yet with an indescriba- 
bly warmer tinge than snow, — a living white, intermixed with 
living green. The hills and hollows beyond the Cold Spring 
copiously shaded, principally with oaks of good growth, and 
some walnut-trees, with the tich sun brightening in the midst 
of the open spaces, and mellowing and fading into shade, — 
and single trees, with their cool spot of shade, in the waste 
of the sun : quite a picture of beauty, gently picturesque.” 

Like Fra Lippo in Browning’s poem, Hawthorne, it is evi- 
dent, took delight in 

“ The beauty and the wonder and the power, 

The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades, 
Changes, surprises.” 

and all that makes the glory of the material universe. No 
wonder that at first the sombre minded children of the Puri- 
tans had little sympathy for one who evinced what to them 
must have seemed a pagan delight in the outward and transi- 
tory splendor of things. But Hawthorne was wiser than they. 
When one reads his romances he is impressed by the intimate 


24 


INTRODUCTION 


power with which Hawthorne makes the quaint life of colonial 
Salem and Boston real, and by the masterly ease with which he 
catches the rich color and flickering light and shade of the 
New England forest. This command of artistic description he 
acquired by the close, open-eyed study which the sketches we 
have named reveal. Had Hawthorne not persevered the Puri- 
tans and their New England home would have been deprived 
of their most enduring memorial. 


2 

Whether because of his repeated failure to win recognition 
or because of the inevitable disillusion which comes with in- 
creasing years, or both, Hawthorne gradually lost his 
simple and childlike pleasure in the beauty of outward things. 
Already in the descriptive sketches included among the 
Twice Told Tales, he gives signs of an awakening self-con- 
sciousness. “And if I moralize as we go,” he says to Little 
Annie, “do not listen to me ; only look about you and be 
merry !” What had seemed to him the real world gradually 
assumed the character of a symbol, and his life, which had 
begun with the enthusiastic conviction of prompt achievement, 
took on the appearance of an illusory quest. Thus he became 
introspective and, for a time, lost himself in his own mind. 
The consciousness of his spiritual isolation and of the hope- 
lessness of his aspirations began to absorb his thought. He 
had tried to approach his fellowmen in a spirit of light-hearted 
confidence until he discovered that a black veil hid them from 
him; he had followed a high purpose, but it had proved as 
deceptive as the light of “The Great Carbuncle”; he had 
set out to attain renown, and yet, after many years of earnest 
effort, his name remained as obscure as that of the ardent 
youth who lay buried beneath the Slide. The consideration of , 
these things robbed him of his unstudied buoyancy. In the 
characteristic compositions of his second period, he con- 
cerned himself not so much with the appearance of the world 
as with ideas, not so much with the movement of the life about 


HAWTHORNE’S LITERARY WORK 


25 


him, as with the general truths which he had learned from his 
individual experience. 

The isolation of the individual and the illusory quest of a 
high ideal are the fundamental themes of' Hawthorne’s more 
important allegories. More than this the intelligent student 
will, of course, discover in them. Like all true works of art, 
they tell a slightly varying story to every reader. But their 
lasting interest they undoubtedly owe to the vigor and lucidity 
with which they symbolize what is common to the experience 
of all the world. Of some of his allegories Hawthorne once 
said, in a letter to Mr. James T. Fields, that he himself could 
no longer guess their meaning. Such fantastic jeux d’espnl 
as “ The Prophetic Pictures,” “ Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment,” 
and “ Fancy’s Show Box,”* probably belong to this category 
of obscurities. They are the products not so much of art as 
of literary dexterity. Neither have they the autobiographical 
note which characterizes the nobler compositions of Haw- 
thorne’s second period. But in “ The Wedding Knell,” “ The 
Minister’s Black Veil,” “ The Great Carbuncle,” “ David 
Swan,” “The Vision of the Fountain,” “The Ambitious 
Guest,” “ The Lily’s Quest,” “ Edward Fane’s Rose Bud,” 
and “ The Threefold Destiny,” in the present volume ; and 
in the later collections, more especially “ The Birthmark,” 

“ Drowne’s Wooden Image,” and “ The Artist of the Beauti- 
ful,” in the Mosses from an Old Manse ; and “The Snow • 
Image” and “The Great Stone Face” in The Snow Image 
and Other Twice Told Tales , the careful reader will 
find the story of the author’s early life told in the veiled lan- 
guage of highly wrought allegory. “I myself,” he writes in 
one of his “ Sketches from Memory,” “have followed the quest 
of the Great Carbuncle.” And is it not the precious gem 
“removed from peak to peak of the higher hills, or shrouded 
by the mist summoned from some enchanted lake by a myster- 
ious spirit,” which in all these tales the protagonist is seeking? 
Whether it be Mr. Ellenwood in “ The Wedding Knell,” who, 


*cf. “ Monsieur Miroir,” “ P’s Correspondence,” “ The Virtuoso’s 
Collection,” and “ The Celestial Railroad,” in the Mosses from an 
Old Manse. 


26 


INTRODUCTION 


like the Seeker keeps up the search when age has carried him 
beyond the hope of enjoyment; or the youthful stranger in 
“The Ambitious Guest,” whom destruction overtakes while 
the glow of enthusiasm still colors his cheeks; or again, the 
beautiful Lilias Fay, who finds her grave on the very spot 
where she had concluded to erect her Temple of Happiness; 
we recognize behind each mask the same personality, domi- 
nated always by the same idea. This no doubt is the reason 
why the introspective allegories, in spite of the element of the 
wild and wonderful which Hawthorne has woven into them, 
frequently seem the most intimate expressions of their author. 


3 

It is the nature of introspection that it makes those subject 
to it either morbidly cynical, or calmly thoughtful. Of both 
of these effects American literature affords striking examples. 
Poe, with his unwholesome delight in graves, and his bitter 
reiteration of “never-more, never-more,” is maddened by a 
haunting egotism. But Hawthorne, with his hatred of mystery 
and his love for the open woods and the sunshine, first catches 
at the meaning of sorrow, then escapes from himself, and por- 
trays objectively the tragedy of life. “Joy! joy!” cries Adam 
Forrester at the tomb of Lilias Fay, “On a grave be the site of 
our temple, and now our happiness is for eternity.” “With 
those words,” Hawthorne concludes his story, “a ray of sun- 
shine broke through the dismal sky and glimmered down into 
the sepulchre, while at the same moment the shape of old 
Walter Gascoigne stalked drearily av/ay, because his gloom, 
symbolic of all earthly sorrow, might no longer abide there, 
now that the darkest riddle of humanity was read.” Thus, too, 
at the grave of his cherished hopes, Hawthorne arrived 
at a knowledge of the riddle of life. With the strength which 
that knowledge gave him, he turned from the sorrow of intro- 
spective regret and wrote the tragedy, not of his own aspi- 
ration, but of Puritan New England, the fragment of human- 
ity which he understood best. 


HAWTHORNE'S LITERARY WORK 


27 


In 1849, as the result of political intrigue and, in part, 
J through the treachery of a former friend, Hawthorne had been 
forced to resign his position as Surveyor of the Customs at 
I Salem. He was then 45 years old, married, and altogether 
; without material resources. His literary work had not been 
remunerative and, by his own account, as we have seen, he wai 
: hardly known as an author outside of New England. Never- 
! theless his cnly possible means of procuring a livelihood was 
his pen, and to this he returned, after a neglect of almost four 
j years. But he did not again attempt to portray the life of the 
; people among whom he lived, or to help them to see whatever 
, was worthy of observation in their natural environment. 

Neither did allegory appeal to him at this time, although in 
! his declining years he was again to employ it. A theme of 
deeper human interest than any he had yet utilized had long 
| been in his mind and was now to be given expression. In “The 
Gray Champion” and “The Gentle Boy,” and, again, in “Endi- 
cot and the Red Cross” he had studied the character of his 
Puritan ancestors. Their dauntless valor, their stern and ar- 
dent devotion to righteousness, even the persecutions to which 
they resorted in the name of Jehovah, had interested him from 
the period of The Seven Tales of My Native Land. And 
now with his richer experience and firmer grasp of the mean- 
ing of life, he reverted to their history and searched it for its 
profounder significance. In an interesting historical sketch 
called “Main Street” he wrote of the early religious exiles that 
“the zeal of a recovered faith burned like a lamp within their 
hearts, enriching everything around them with its radiance. 

. . . All was \yell, so long as their lamps were freshly 

kindled at the heavenly flame. After a while, however, 
whether in their time or their children’s, these lamps began 
to burn more dimly, or with a less genuine lustre.” This con- 
trast between the first generation and the descendants of the 
Puritans had frequently been the subject of Hawthorne’s 
reflection. It is possible that his sense of the decline of the 
race was intensified by his bitter experience at the Salem Cus- 
tom House. However this may be, he now set himself to dis- 
cover its significance, and in the three great romances, written 


1 


28 


. INTRODUCTION 


in rapid succession in the interval between his retirement from 
the Custom House and his appointment to the consulship at 
Liverpool, he revealed the tragedy of the Puritan ideal. 

Among the figures reflected in the polished breastplate of 
John Endicott, as Hawthorne describes it in “ Endicott and the 
Red Cross,” there was “a young woman with no mean share of 
beauty whose doom it was to wear the letter A on the breast of 
her gown in the eyes of all the world and her own children. 
And even her own children knew what that initial signified. 
Sporting with her -infamy, the lost and desperate creature had 
embroidered the fatal token in scarlet cloth with golden thread 
and the nicest art of needlework : so that the capital A might 
have been thought to mean ‘Admirable/ or anything rather 
than ‘Adulteress/ ” This same woman it is whom in The 
Scarlet Letter we know as Hester Prynne. Only, in the 
romance she seems not so much the lost and desperate creature, 
as the unspoiled child of nature, not a vulgar wanton, but a 
true woman whose sin is transformed into something noble by 
the heroic and unselfish fervency of her love. In sharp con- 
trast to Hester Prynne, Hawthorne places a man whom the 
Puritans revered as the type of the high-minded servant of 
God, Dimmesdale, the zealous preacher of the sacred law 
whose days had been consecrated to holiness and rigid obed- 
ience to the teachings of the Scriptures. It is for his sake that 
Hester Prynne wears the symbol of ignominy, and it is he, 
whom, in willingly blind devotion, she helps to live the lie the 
awful consciousness of which ultimately kills him. Thus the 
story of Hester Prynne illustrates the power of fearless truth 
to exalt what is base, while the story of Dimmesdale reveals 
the baneful influence of high profession unacoompanied by 
scrupulous sincerity. He is to us the representative of the 
Puritans of the second generation of whom Hawthorne wrote 
in “Dr. Bullivant”(cf. above the quotation from “Main Street”). 
“The early settlers,” he says there, “were able to keep within 
the narrowest limits of their rigid principles, because they 
had adopted them in mature life, and from their own deep 
convictions, and were strengthened in them by that species of 
enthusiasm, which is as sober and enduring as reason itself. 


HAWTHORNE’S LITERARY WORK 


29 


But if their immediate successors followed the same line of 
I conduct, they were confined to it, in a great degree, by habits 
j forced upon them and by the severe rule under which they were 
educated, and, in short, more by restraint than by the free 
exercise of imagination and understanding. When, therefore, 

I the old original stock, the men who looked heavenward with- 
; out a wandering glance to the earth, had lost part of their 
domestic and public influence, yielding to infirmity and death, 
a relaxation naturally ensued in their theory and practice or 
morals and religion, and became more evident with the daily 
decay of its most strenuous opponents.” Thus in The Scarlet 
Letter we see the process through which, as Hawthorne be- 
lieved, the Puritan ideal was undermined by the diminishing 
i sincerity of those, who, having set God above the world that 
they might the more reverently worship Him, tripped and 
faltered in the course which they had chosen, until their faith 
degenerated into a haunting superstition. “ Morning proper 
fair” writes a Puritan of about this period, “the weather ex- 
i ceedingly benign, but (to me) metaphoric, dismal, dark and 
f portentous, some prodigie appearing in every corner of the 
| skies.” The passage might have been copied from Dimmes- 
dale’s diary. For him the consciousness of his hidden sin 
blotted God from the heavens, so that he no longer found it 
I possible to kindle his lamp at the heavenly flame. 

Hawthorne in “Dr. Bullivant” goes on to say: “This 
gradual but sure operation was assisted by the increas- 
ing commercial importance of the colonies, whither a new set 
of immigrants followed unworthily in the track of the pure- 
hearted Puritans.” In the development of a sordid^commercial 
j thrift, such as that to which he here refers, Hawthorne dis- 
covered a cause for the decay of the Puritan ideal only second 
in importance to the growth of insincerity. His criticism of 
his contemporaries as “money-getting drudges,” frequently 
reiterated in his note-books and published works, and of 
which the introductory chapter of The Scarlet Letter is thj 
best known example, has sometimes been called unnecessarily 
and unfairly harsh. With this question we have nothing to do. 
We need only to observe that just as in Dimmesdale Haw- 


30 


INTRODUCTION 


thorne pictured the curse of insincerity, so in Jaffrey Pyncheon 
he illustrated the curse of a pietistically selfish and hypocrit- 
ical worldliness. Is it not Hawthorne’s own son who informs 
us that the original of Governor Pyncheon, so far as Haw- 
thorne’s creations can be said ever to have had originals, was 
that same friend, who in the days of his greatest trial betrayed j 
him for political ends, and of whom Charles Sumner j 
exclaimed, in discussing him with Hawthorne, “What ! that i 
smooth, smiling, oily man of God !” In his introduction to 
The House of the Seven Gables, Hawthorne tells us that the 
moral of thfe story may be interpreted as being “the truth, that 
the wrong-doing of one generation lives into successive ones, 
and, divesting itself of every temporary advantage, becomes a 
pure and uncontrolled mischief.” And the particular evil which 
the story illustrates is the lust of ill-gotten gold. Colonel 
Pyncheon, the contemporary of the Rev. Mr. Higginson, and 
of Dimmesdale himself, had hunted one of his fellowmen to 
death and had built his mansion over the spot 
first covered by the log-hut of his martyred victim. “God,” 
said the dying man, pointing his finger, with ghostly look, at ' 
the undismayed countenance of his enemy, — “God will give | 
him blood to drink!” And in the romance we see the curse j 
of Matthew Maule descending through the generations and 1 
crowding into his roomy oaken chair with Governor Pyncheon, 
who, smooth, smiling, oily man of God that he was, had stolen 
the joy of life from his gentle cousin Clifford to add to his 
own bodily comfort. Looking about the world which, in his 
time, seemed to Hawthorne to be setting its heart solely upon l 
material gayi, is it surprising that he should long have consid- j 
ered the story of The House of the Seven Gables his most I 
prophetic creation? And, indeed, even though its lesson has ! 
not the deeply pathetic human interest which in The Scarlet j 
Letter appeals to our profoundest emotion, it is one which the 1 
children of our generation need very thoughtfully to re- 
member. 

The debasing greed of Jaffrey Pyncheon, and the fatal insin- 
cerity of Dimmesdale have mingled in The Blithedale 
Romance, the concluding work of the New England triology, ' 


HAWTHORNE’S literary work 


31 


into something so ugly that Hawthorne conceals it from us. 
But of the nature of this hidden evil we can form some opin- 
ion as we observe its malignant effects. Like an insidious 
infection it breathes through the romance, maiming poor Pris- 
cilla, driving Zenobia to her ghastly death, and so palsying 
both Hollingsworth and Coverdal^ that they become 'incapable 
of heroic action. There is a passage in the eighth chapter of 
the book which may be interpreted as symbolic of the whole. 

“The two” (Priscilla and Zenobia), Coverdale writes, “had 
been a-Maying together. They had found anemones in abun- 
dance, houstonias by the handful, some columbines, a few long 
stalked violets, and a quantity of white everlasting flowers, 
and had filled up their basket with the delicate spray of shrubs 
and trees. None were prettier than the maple twigs, the leaf 
of which looks like a scarlet bud in May, and like a plate of 
vegetable gold in October. Zenobia, who showed no conscience 
in. such matters, had also rifled a cherry-tree of one of its 
blossomed boughs, and, with all this variety of sylvan orna- 
ment, had been decking out Priscilla. Being done with a 
good deal of taste, it made her look more charming than I 
should have thought possible, with my recollection of the wan, 
frost-nipt girl, as heretofore described. Nevertheless, among 
these fragrant blossoms, and conspicuously, too, had been stuck 
a weed of evil odor and ugly aspect, which, as soon as I 
detected it, destroyed the effect of all the rest ” 

The exact nature of the evil represented by this noxious and 
ugly weed, half *concealed among the flowers, Hawthorne, as 
we have said, nowhere explicitly tells us. But if we think of 
The Blithedale Romance as expressing the culmination of the 
Puritan tragedy, we shall not, perhaps, be far amiss in dis- 
covering behind the story the pernicious contagion of sup- 
pressed or disguised crime, which, when persisted in, has the 
power ultimately to destroy the pith and spirit of even the most 
heroic race. The palsy of The Blithedale Romance is*the nat- 
ural fruit of such lives as Governor Pyncheon and Dimmes- 
dale had pursued. 


32 


INTRODUCTION 


4 

The descriptive sketches, the introspective allegories, and 
the three romances embodying the tragedy of the Puritan ideal, 
represent, then, the beginning' the transitional period, and the 
height of Hawthorne s literary career. Taken together, they 
constitute perhaps the most noteworthy achievement of Amer- 
ican letters. In them the student who is about to enter upon 
the study of the Twice Told Tales, will find what is most im- 
portant to an appreciation of Hawthorne’s genius. But much 
else was written by Hawthorne which to the interested reader 
is hardly less worthy of study. The Note-books, both those 
written in America and those in which he has recorded the 
impressions of his travel in England, France, and Italy, run 
like an undercurrent beneath his more highly finished works, 
sometimes entering into them, as in the descriptive setting of 
The Blithedale Romance, sometimes, as the notes in the present 
volume sufficiently illustrate, supplying the undeveloped mate- 
rial out of which they were wrought. In Our Old Home, the 
only one of his note-books recast and published by Hawthorne 
himself, the , reader will find passages written in his mellowest 
and most transparent style. The Marble Faun, frequently 
praised as Hawthorne’s masterpiece, but which, in spite of its 
greater elaboration and the more perfect definition of its 
characters, belongs, by the nature of its theme, in a class with 
such allegories as “ Rapaccini’s Daughter” and “Ethan Brand,” 
is suffused by the subdued classic charm of Rome, in which its 
scene is laid. Without the power or the deep significance of 
the New England romances, it is yet only less interesting than 
they, for it synthesizes the grace of the early descriptive 
sketches with the subtle art of the introspective allegories. 
And, finally, the highly wrought, though recondite and obscure 
productions of Hawthorne’s declining years, need to be men- 
tioned. Dr. Grimshaw’s Secret, Septimus Felton, and ihe 
fragmentary Dolliver Romance are his repeated attempts to 
write a story of the Elixir of Life, at a time when he himself 
was slowly dying. Dr. Grimshaw’s Secret , left by Hawthorne 
in manuscript, has been edited with great care and much 


HAWTHORNE’S LITERARY WORK 


33 


labor by his son, Mr. Julian Hawthorne, and Septimus Felton. 
has the distinction of having been deciphered from the almost 
illegible script of Hawthorne’s late years, by Mrs. Rose Haw- 
thorne Lathrop, with the assistance of the poet, Robert Brown- 
ing. The Dolliver Romance was appearing in the Atlantic 
when Hawthorne’s strength failed him and he started to the 
mountains with his life-long friend, Franklin Pierce. In a 
letter to his publisher on this jccasion he writes : ‘T hardly 
know what to say to the public about this abortive Romance, 
though I know pretty well what the case will be. I shall never 
finish it.” And, indeed, the new spirit of vigor for which he 
patiently waited did not come to him. He died leaving The 
Dolliver Romance unfinished. Its theme was “the instinctive 
yearning of man for an immortal existence.” 

Certain books of value to the student of Hawthorne : 

The Riverside Edition of Hawthorne’s Works. (Houghton, 
Mifflin & Company.) 

Hawthorne and His Wife, by Julian Hawthorne. (Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.) 

Memories of Hawthorne, by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. 

(Houghton, Mifflin & Company.) 

An Analytical Index to the works of Nathaniel Hawthorne 
with a sketch of his life. (Houghton, Mifflin & Company.) 
Hawthorne in the English Men of Letters Series, by Henry 
James. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne in the American Men of Letters Series, 
by G. E. Woodberry. 

The Beginnings of New England, by John Fiske. (Houghton, 
Mifflin & Company.) 

Customs and Fashions in Old Nezu England. Alice Morse 
Earle. (Charles Scribner’s Sons.) 





















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TWICE-TOLD TALES 


THE GRAY CHAMPION 

[Hawthorne obtained the suggestion for his story of “The 
Gray Champion” from a tradition of King Philip’s War which 
is recounted by John Fiske in his delightful book, The Begin- 
nings of New England*. On the ist of September, 1675, the 
followers of King Philip made an attack upon the village of 
Hadley. “ The inhabitants were all at church keeping a fast, 
when the yells of the- Indians resounded. Seizing their guns, 
the men rushed out to meet the foe, but seeing the village 
green swarming on every side with the horrid savages, for a 
moment their courage gave way and a panic was imminent ; 
when all at once a stranger of reverend aspect and stately 
form, with white beard flowing on his bosom, appeared among 
them and took command with an air of authority which none 
could gainsay. He bade them charge on the screeching rabble, 
and after a short, sharp skirmish, the tawny foe was put to 
flight. When the pursuers came together again, after the ex- 
citement of the rout, their deliverer was nowhere to be found. 
In their wonder, as they knew not whence he came nor whither 
he had gone, many were heard to say that an angel had been 
sent from heaven for their deliverance.” . . . Their de- 

liverer was William GofTe, once a major-general in Cromwell’s 
army, and a member of Bradshaw’s Court, which, on the 20th of 
January, 1649, condemned Charles I. to death. In 1660 he had 
fled to the wilds of New England to escape the detectives of 
Charles II. ; and it was because he was a political refugee that 
he withheld his name from the people of Hadley. “From his 
hiding-place in the woods he had seen the savages stealing 
down the hillside, and had sallied forth to w r in one more vic- 
tory for the hosts of Midian.” 

Hawthorne describes the apparition of The Gray Champion, 
whom he represents as the embodiment of the New England 
spirit of Liberty, as having occurred under the more memora- 

*Pp. 217 and 272. 

35 


36 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ble circumstances of the Boston insurrection of April 18, 1689. 
He has further altered the facts of history to suit the purposes 
of his narrative : it will be remembered that so far from being 
daunted by the mercenaries of Governor Andros, the people of 
Boston, two weeks after John Winslow had.brought the news 
of the landing of the Prince of Orange in England, lit the 
signal-fire on Beacon Hill, summoned the militia from the 
surrounding country, forced the Castle to surrender, seized 
and dismantled the Rose frigate which was riding in the har- 
bor, and finally arrested the tyrant himself as he was trying 
to make his escape disguised in woman’s clothes. 

Sir Walter Scott h^s made use of the legend of the Gray 
Champion in Peveril of the Peak , and James Fenimor % e Cooper 
in The Wept of Wish-ton-wish. (Fiske’s Beginnings of New 
England, pp. 217 and 272.)] 

There was once a time when New England groaned under 
the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those threatened 
ones which brought on the Revolution. James II., the bigoted 
successor of Charles the Voluptuous, had annulled the charters 
of all the colonies, and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier 
to take away our liberties and endanger our religion. The 
administration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single 
characteristic of tyranny : a Governor and Council, holding 
office from the King, and wholly independent of the country; 
laws made and taxes levied without concurrence of the people, 
immediate or by their representatives ; the rights of private 
citizens violated, and the titles of all landed property declared 
void ; the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the press ; 
and, finally, disaffection overawed by the first band of mer- 
cenary troops that ever marched on our free soil. For two 
years our ancestors were kept in sullen submission by that 
filial love which had invariably secured their allegiance to the 
mother country, whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, 
Protector, or Popish Monarch. Till these evil times, however, 
such allegiance had been merely nominal, and the colonists had 


THE GRAY CHAMPION 


37 


ruled themselves, enjoying far more freedom than is even yet 
the privilege of the native subjects of Great Britain. 

At length a rurrjor reached our shores that the Prince of 
Orange had ventured on an enterprise the success of which 
would be the triumph of civil and religious rights and the sal- 
vation of New England. It was but a doubtful whisper; it 
might be false, or the attempt might fail ; and, in either case- 
the man that stirred against King James would lose his 
head. Still, the intelligence produced a marked effect. The 
people smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold 
glances at their oppressors ; while, far and wide, there was a 
subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest signal would 
rouse the whole land from its sluggish despondency. Aware 
of their danger, the rulers resolved to avert it by an imposing 
display of strength, and perhaps to confirm their despotism by 
yet harsher measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir 
Edmund Andros and his favorite councillors, being warm with 
wine, assembled the redcoats of the Governor’s Guard, and 
made their appearance in the streets of Boston. The sun was 
near setting when the march commenced. 

The roll of the drum, at that unquiet crisis, seemed to go 
through the streets, less as the martial music of the soldiers, 
than as a muster-call to the inhabitants themselves. A multi- 
tude, by various avenues, assembled in King Street, which 
was destined to be the scene, nearly a century afterwards, of 
another encounter between the troops of Britain and a people 
struggling against her tyranny. Though more than sixty 
years had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of their 
descendants still showed the strong and sombre features of 
their character, perhaps more strikingly in such a stern emer- 
gency than on happier occasions. There was the sober garb. 


38 


x vVICE-TOLD TALES 


the general severity of mien, the gloomy but undismayed 
expression, the Scriptural forms of speech, and the confidence 
in Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause, which would have 
marked a band of the original Puritans, when threatened by 
some peril of the wilderness. Indeed, it was not yet time 
for the old spirit to be extinct ; since there were men in the 
street, that day, who had worshipped there beneath the trees, 
before a house was reared to the God for whom they had 
become exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too, 
smiling grimly at the thought, that their aged arms might 
strike another blow against the house of Stuart. Here, also, 
were the veterans of King Philip’s war, who had burned vil- 
lages and slaughtered young and old, with pious fierceness, 
while the godly souls throughout the land were helping them 
with prayer. Several ministers were scattered among the 
crowd, which, unlike all oth^r mobs, regarded them with such 
reverence as if there were sanctity in their very garments. 
These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the people, but 
not to disperse them. Meantime, the purpose of the Governor, 
in disturbing the peace of the town, at a period when the 
slightest commotion might throw the country into a ferment, 
was almost the universal subject of inquiry, and variously 
explained. « 

“Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,” cried some, 
“because he knoweth that his time is short. All our godly 
pastors are to be dragged to prison! We shall see them at 
a Smithfield fire in King Street!” 

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer round 
their minister, who looked calmly upwards and assumed a 
more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a candidate for the 
highest honor of his profession, the crown of martyrdom. It 


THE GRAY CHAMPION 


39 


"was actually fancied, at that period, that New England might 
have a John Rogers of her own, to take the 5>lace of that 
worthy in the Primer.* 

“ The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St. Bar- 
tholomew !” cried others. “We are to be massacred, man and 
male child !” 

Neither was this rumor wholly discredited, although the 
wiser class believed the Governor’s object somewhat lees 
atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter, Bradstrect, 
a venerable companion of the first settlers, was known to be 
in town. There were grounds for conjecturing that Sir Ed- 
mund Andros intended, at once, to strike terror, by a pan.de 
of military force, and to confound the opposite faction by 
possessing himself of their chief. 

“ Stand firm for the old charter, Governor !” shouted the 
crowd, seizing upon the idea. “The good old Governor Brad- 
street !” 

While this cry was at the loudest, the people were surprised 
by the well-known figure of Governor Bradstreet himself, a 
patriarch of nearly ninety, who appeared on the elevated steps 
of a door, and, with characteristic mildness, besought them to 
submit to the constituted authorities. 

“ My children,” concluded this venerable person, “ do noth- 
ing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the welfare of New 


* “ The New England Primer, or an easy and pleasant Guide to the 
Art of Reading.” The character of this quaint book is indicated 
bv the heading of a chapter by John Cotton, which he calls 
Spiritual Milk for American Babes drawn out of the Breasts of both 
Testaments, for their Souls’ Nourishment.” It was used by many gen* 
erations of children in colonial New England. 

One of the cuts in the Primer represents the burning of Tohn Rogers. 
Beneath this cut is the following inscription: “Mr. John Rogers, Min- 
ister of the Gospel in London, was the first Martyr in Queen Mary’s 
Reign, and was burnt at Smithfield, February the Fourteenth, 1554. His 
Wife, with nine small Children and one at her Breast, following Him 
to the Stake, with which sorrowful Sight he was not in the least 
daunted, but with wonderful Patience died courageously for the Gospel 
of IESUS CHRIST.” 


40 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


England, and expect patiently what the Lord will do in this 
matter !” 

The event was soon to be decided. All this time the roll of 
the drum had been approaching through Cornhill, louder and 
deeper, till witt reverberations from house to house, and the 
regular tramp of martial footsteps, it burst into the street A 
double rank of soldiers made their appearance, occupying the 
whole breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks, and 
matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in the dusk. 
Their steady march was like the progress of a machine, that 
would roll irresistibly over everything in its way. Next, mov- 
ing slowly, with a confused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, 
rode a party of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being 
Sir Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like. Those 
around him were his favorite councillors, and the bitterest foes 
of New England. At his right hand rode Edward Randolph,* 
our arch-enemy, that “ blasted wretch,” as Cotton Mather calls 
him, who achieved the downfall of our ancient government, 
and was followed with a sensible curse, through life and to his 
grave. On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and 
mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with a down- 
cast look, dreading, as well he- might, to meet the indignant 
gaze of the people, who beheld him, their only countryman by 
birth, among the oppressors of his native land. The captain 
of a frigate in the harbor, and two or three civil officers under 
the Crown, were also there. But the figure which most 
attracted the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was 
the Episcopal clergyman of King’s Chapel, riding haughtily 


t E d wa rd R a nd° lph , an emissary of Charles II., and agent of the 
Lords of the Committee of Trade and Plantations.” “ He did much 
to embitter the people of Massachusetts against the mother country ” 
bee John Fiske s Beginnings of New England for an account of the 
other historical personages introduced in the narrative. 


THE GRAY CHAMPION 


41 


among the magistrates in his priestly vestments, the fitting rep- 
resentative of prelacy and persecution, the union of Church 
and State, and all those abominations which had driven the 
Puritans to the wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in 
double rank, brought up the rear. 

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of New 
England, and its moral, the deformity of any government that 
does not grow out of the nature of things and the character 
of the people. On one side the religious multitude, with their 
sad visages and dark attire, and on the other, the group 
of despotic rulers, with the High-Churchman in the midst, 
and here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all magnifi- 
cently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust authority, 
and scoffing at the universal groan. And the mercenary sol- 
diers, waiting but the word to deluge the street with blood, 
showed the only means by which obedience could be secured. 

“ O Lord of Hosts,” cried a voice among the crowd, “ pro- 
vide a Champion for thy people !” 

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as a herald’s 
cry, to introduce a remarkable personage. The crowd had 
rolled back, and were now huddled together nearly at the 
extremity of the street, while the soldiers had advanced no 
more than a third of its length. The intervening space was 
empty, — a paved solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw 
almost a twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen 
the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have emerged 
from among the people, and was walking by himself along the 
centre of the street, to confront the armed band. He wore 
the old Puritan dress, a dark cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, 
In the fashion of at least fifty years before, with a heavy sword 
upon his thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulou? 
gait of age. 


42 


TWiCE-TOLD TALE'S 


When at some distance from the multitude, the old man 
turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique majesty, 
rendered doubly venerable by the hoary beard that descended 
on his breast. He made a gesture at once of encouragement 
and warning, then turned again, and resumed his way. 

“ Who is this gray patriarch ?” asked the young men of 
their sires. 

“Who is this venerable brother?” asked the old men among 
themselves. 

But none could make reply. The fathers of the people, those 
of fourscore years and upwards, were disturbed, deeming it 
strange that they should forget one of such evident authority, 
whom they must have known in their early days, the associate 
of Winthrop, and all the old councillors, giving laws, and 
making prayers, and leading them against the savage. The 
elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with locks 
as gray in their youth as their own were now. And the 
young! How could he have passed so utterly from their 
memories, — that hoary sire, the "relic of long-departed times, 
whose awful benediction had surely been bestowed on their 
uncovered heads, in childhood? 

“Whence did he cofne? What is his purpose? Who can 
this old man be?” whispered the wondering crowd. 

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand, was pursu- 
ing his solitary walk along the centre of the street. As he 
drew near the advancing soldiers, and as the roll of their drum 
came full upon his ear, the old man raised himself to a loftier 
mien, while the decrepitude of age seemed to fall from his 
shoulders, 'leaving him in gray but unbroken dignity. Now, he 
marched onward with a warrior’s step, keeping time to the 
military music. Thus the aged form advanced on one side, 


THE GRAY CHAMPION 


43 


and the whole parade of soldiers and magistrates on the other, 
till, when scarcely twenty yards remained between, the old 
man grasped his staff by the middle, and held it before him 
like a leader’s truncheon. 

“ Stand !” cried he. 

The eye, the face, and attitude of command ; the solemn, yet 
warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule a host in the battle- 
field or be raised to God in prayer, were irresistible. At the 
old man’s word and outstretched arm, the roll of the drum 
was hushed at once, and the advancing line stood still. A 
tremulous enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately 
form, combining the leader and the saint, so gray, so dimly 
seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong to some old 
champion of the righteous cause, whom the oppressor’s drum 
had summoned from his grave. They raised a shout of awe 
and exultation, and looked for the deliverance of New Eng- 
land. 

The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, perceiving 
themselves brought to an unexpected stand, rode hastily for 
ward, as if they would have pressed their snorting and 
affrighted horses right against the hoary apparition. He, how- 
ever, blenched not a step, but glancing his severe eye round the 
group, which half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on 
Sir Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the da r k 
old man was chief ruler there, and that the Governor and 
Council, with soldiers at their back^ representing the whole 
power and authority of the Crown, had no alternative but 
obedience. 

“What does this old fellow here?” cried Edward Randolph, 
fiercely. “ On, Sir Edmund ! Bid the soldiers forward, and 
give the dotard the same choice that you give all his country- 
men, — to stand aside or be trampled on !” 


44 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grandsire,” said 
Bullivant, laughing. “ See you not, he is some old round- 
headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep these thirty years, and 
knows nothing of the change of times? Doubtless, he thinks 
to put us down with a proclamation in Old Noll’s name !” 

“Are you mad, old man?” demanded Sir Edmund Andros, 
in loud and harsh tones. “ How dare you stay the march of 
King James’s Governor?” 

“ I have stayed the march of a king himself, ere now,” 
replied the gray figure, with stern composure. “ I am here, 
Sir Governor, because the cry of an oppressed people hath dis- 
turbed me in my secret place ; and beseeching this favor ear- 
nestly of the Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again 
on earth, in the good old cause of his saints. And what speak 
ye of James? There is no longer a Popish tyrant on the 
throne of England, and by to-morrow noon his name shall be 
a byword in this very street, where ye would make it a word 
of terror. Back, thou that wast a Governor, back! With 
this night thy power is ended, — to-morrow, the prison ! — 
back, lest I foretell the scaffold!” 

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer, and drink- 
ing in the words of their champion, who spoke in accents long 
disused, like one unaccustomed to converse, except with the 
dead of many years ago. But his voice stirred their souls. 
They confronted the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and 
ready to convert the very stones of the street into deadly 
weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man; then 
he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude, and beheld 
them burning with that lurid wrath, so difficult to kindle or to 
quench ; and again he fixed his gaze on the aged form, which 
stood obscurely in an open space, where neither friend nor foe 
had thrust^ himself. What were his thoughts, he uttered no 


THE GRAY CHAMPION 


45 


word which might discover. But whether the oppressor were 

V 

overawed by the Gray Champion’s look, or perceived his peril 
in the threatening attitude of the people, it is certain that he 
gave back, and ordered his soldiers to commence a slow and 
guarded retreat. Before another sunset, the Governor, and all 
that rode so proudly with him, were prisoners, and long ere it 
was known that James had abdicated, King William was pro- 
claimed throughout New England. 

But where was the Gray Champion ? Some reported, 
that when the troops had gone from King Street, and the 
people were thronging tumultuously in their rear, Bradstreet, 
the aged Governor, was seen to embrace a form more aged 
than his own.. Others soberly affirmed, that while they 
marvelled at the venerable grandeur of his aspect, the old 
man had faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues 
of twilight, till, where he stood, there was an empty space. 
But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The men 
of that generation watched for his reappearance, in sunshine 
and in twilight, but never saw him more, nor knew when 
his funeral passed, nor where his gravestone was. 

And who was the Gray Champion? Perhaps his name 
might be found in the records of that stern Court of Justice, 
which passed a sentence, too mighty for the age, but glorious 
in all after times, for its humbling lesson to the monarch and 
its high example to the subject. I have heard, that whenever 
the descendants of the Puritans are to show the spirit of 
their sires, the old man appears again. When eighty years 
had passed, he walked once more in King Street. Five years 
later, in the twilight of an April morning, he stood on the 
green, beside the meeting-house, at Lexington, where now the 
obelisk of granite, with a slab of slate inlaid, commemorates 
the first fallen of the Revolution. And when our fathers 


46 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


were toiling at the breastwork on Bunker’s Hill, all through 
that night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long 
may it be, ere he comes again ! His hour is one of darkness, 
and adversity, and peril. But should domestic tyranny op- 
press us, or the invader’s step pollute our soil, still may the 
Gray Champion come, for he is the type of New England’s 
hereditary spirit, and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, 
must ever be the pledge that New England’s sons will vindi- 
cate their ancestry. 




' • 



SUNDAY AT HOME 

* • / 

Every Sabbath morning in the summer time I thrust back 
the curtain, to watch the sunrise stealing down a steeple, 
which stands opposite my chamber-window. First, the weather- 
cock begins to flash ; then, a fainter lustre gives the spire an 
airy aspect ; next it encroaches on the tower, and causes the 
index of the dial to glisten like gold, as it points to the 
gijded figure of the hour. Now, the loftiest window gleams, 
and now the lower. The carved framework of the portal 
is marked strongly out. At length, the morning glory, in its 
descent from heaven, comes down the stone steps, one by one ; 
and there stands the steeple, glowing with fresh radiance, 
while the shades of twilight still hide themselves among the 
nooks of the adjacent buildings. Methinks, though the same 
sun brightens it, every fair morning, yet the steeple has a 
peculiar robe of brightness for the Sabbath. 

By dwelling near a church, a person soon contracts an at- 
tachment for the edifice. We naturally personify it, and 
conceive its massive walls and its dim emptiness to be instinct 
with a calm, and meditative, and somewhat melancholy spirit. 
But the steeple stands foremost, in our thoughts, as well as 
locally. It impresses us as a giant, with a mind compre- 
hensive and discriminating enough to care for the great and 
small concerns of all the town. Hourly, while it speaks a 
moral to the few that think, it reminds thousands of busj 
individuals of their separate and most secret affairs. It is th< 

47 


48 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


steeple, too, that flings abroad the hurried and irregular 
accents of general alarm ; neither have gladness and festivity 
found a better utterance, than by its tongue ; and when the 
dead are slowly passing to their home, the steeple has a 
melancholy voice to bid them welcome. Yet, in spite of this 
connection with human interests, what a moral loneliness, on 
week-days, broods round about its stately height ! It has no 
kindred with the houses above which it towers ; it looks down 
into the narrow thoroughfare, the lonelier, because the crowd 
are elbowing their passage at its base. A glance at the ; 
body of the church deepens this impression. Within, by the 
light of distant windows, amid refracted shadows, we discern 
the vacant pews and empty galleries, the silent organ, the i 
voiceless pulpit, and the clock, which tells to solitude how time 
is passing. Time, — where man lives not, — what is it but 
eternity? And in the church, we might suppose, are garnered 
up,, throughout the week, all thoughts and feelings that have 
reference to eternity, until the holy day comes round again, 
to let them forth. Might not, then, its more appropriate site 
be in the outskirts of the town, with space for old trees to ■ 
wave around it, and throw their solemn shadows over a quiet 
green? We will say more of this, hereafter. 

But, on the Sabbath, I watch the earliest sunshine, and 
fancy that a holier brightness marks the day, when there shall 
be no buzz of voices on the exchange, nor traffic in the shops, 
nor crowd, nor business, anywhere but at church. Many have 
fancied so. For my own part, whether I see it scattered 
down among tangled woods, Or beaming broad across the 
fields, or hemmed in between brick buildings, or tracing out 
the figure of the casement on my chamber-floor, still I recog- 
nize the Sabbath sunshine. And ever let me recognize it ! j 
Some illusions, and this among them, are the shadows of 1 


SUNDAY AT HOME 


49 


great truths. Doubts may flit around me, or seem to close 
their evil wings, and settle down; but so long as I imagine 
that the earth is hallowed, and the light of heaven retains 
its sanctity, on the Sabbath, — while that blessed sunshine lives 
within me, — never can my soul have lost the instinct of its 
faith. If it have gone astray, it will return again. 

I love to spend such pleasant Sabbaths, from morning till 
night, behind the curtain of my open window. Are they 
spent amiss? Every spot, so near the church as to be visited 
by the circling shadow of the steeple, should be deemed con- 
secrated ground, to-day. With stronger truth be it said, that 
a devout heart may consecrate a den of thieves, as an evil 
one may convert a temple to the same. My heart, perhaps, has 
not such holy, nor, I would fain trust, such impious potency. 
It must suffice, that, though my form be absent, my inner man 
goes constantly to church, while many, whose bodily presence 
fills the accustomed seats, have left their souls at home. But 
I am there, even before my friend, the sexton. At length, he 
comes, — a man of kindly, but sombre aspect, in dark gray 
clothes, and hair of the same mixture, — he comes and applies 
his key to the wide portal. Now my thoughts may go in 
among the dusty pews, or ascend the pulpit without sacrilege, 
but soon come forth again to enjoy the music of the bell. 
How glad, yet solemn too ! All the steeples in town are talk- 
ing together, aloft in the sunny air, and rejoicing among 
themselves, while their, spires point heavenward. Meantime, 
here are the children assembling to the Sabbath school, which 
is kept somewhere within the church. Often, while looking at 
the arched portal, I have been gladdened by the sight of a score 
of these little girls and boys, in pink, blue, yellow, and crim- 
son frocks, bursting suddenly forth into the sunshine, like a 
swarm of gay butterflies that had been shut up in the solemn 


50 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


gloom. Or I might compare them to cherubs, haunting that 
holy place. 

About a quarter of an hour before the second ringing of 
the bell, individuals of the congregation begin to appear. 
The earliest is invariably an old woman in black, whose bent 
frame and rounded shoulders are evidently laden with some 
heavy affliction, which, she is eager to rest upon the altar. 
Would that the Sabbath came twice as often, for the sake of 
that sorrowful old soul ! There is an elderly man, also, who 
arrives in good season, and leans against the corner of the 
tower, just within the line ot its shadow, looking downward 
with a darksome brow. I sometimes fancy that the old 
woman is the happier of the two. After these, others drop 
in singly, and by twos and threes, either disappearing through 
the doorway or taking their stand in its vicinity. At last, 
and always with an unexpected sensation, the bell turns in the 
steeple overhead, and throws out an irregular clangor, jarring 
the tower to its foundation. As if there were magic in the 
sound, the sidewalks of the street, both up and down along, 
are immediately thronged wi-th two long lines of people, 
all converging hitherward, and streaming into the church. 
Perhaps the far-off roar of a coach draws nearer, — a deeper 
thunder- by its contrast with the surrounding stillness, — until 
its sets down the wealthy worshippers at the portal, among 
their humblest brethren. Beyond that entrance, in theory at 
least, there are no distinctions of earthly rank^ nor, indeed, 
by the goodly apparel which is flaunting in the sun, would 
there seem to be such, on the hither side. Those pretty gins ! 
Why will they disturb my pious meditations ! Of all days 
in the week, they should strive to look least fascinating on the 
Sabbath, instead of heightening their mortal loveliness, as if to 
rival the blessed angels, and keep our thoughts from heaven. 


SUNDAY AT HOME 51 

f ^ 

Were I the minister himself, I must needs look. One giri 
| is white muslin from the waist upwards, and black silk down- 
wards to her slippers; a second blushes from top-knot to 
j shoetie, one universal scarlet; another shines of a pervading 
yellow, as if she had made a garment of the sunshine. The 
greater part, however, have adopted a milder cheerfulness of 
hue. Their veils, especially when the wind raises them, give 
a lightness to the general effect, and make them appear like 
airy phantoms, as they flit up the steps, and vanish into the 
sombre doorway. Nearly all — though it is very strange that 
I should know it — wear white stockings, white as snow, 
and neat slippers, laced crosswise with black ribbon, pretty 
high above the ankles. A white stocking is infinitely more 
i effective than a black one. 

Here comes the clergyman, slow and solemn, in severe 
simplicity, needing no black silk gown to denote his office. 

I His aspect claims my reverence, but cannot win my love. 
Were I to picture Saint Peter, keeping fast the gate of 
heaven, and frowning, more stern than pitiful, on the 
wretched applicants, that face should be my study. By 
middle age, or sooner, the creed has generally wrought upon 
the heart, or been attempered by it. As the minister passes 
into the church, the bell holds its iron tongue, and all the 
low murmur of the congregation dies away. The gray sex- 
ton looks up and down the street, and then at my window- 
curtain, where, through the small peep-hole, I half fancy that 
.he has caught my eye. Now, every loiterer has gone in, 
and the street lies asleep in the quiet sun, while a feeling 
of loneliness comes over me, and brings also an uneasy 
sense of neglected" privileges and duties. Oh, I ought to 
have gone to church ' The bustle of the rising congregation 
reaches my ears. They are standing up to pray. Could I 


52 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


bring my heart into unison with those who are praying in 
yonder church, and- lift it heavenward, with a fervor of 
supplication, but no distinct request, would not that be the 
safest kind of prayer ? “Lord, look down upon me in 
mercy!” With that sentiment gushing from my soul, might 
I not leave all the rest to Him? 

Hark! the hymn. This, at least, is a portion of the service 
which I can enjoy better than if I sat within the walls, where 
the full choir and the massive melody of the organ, would 
fall with a weight upon me. At this distance, it thrills 

through my frame, and plays upon my heartstrings, with a 

pleasure both of the sense and spirit. Heaven be praised, I 
know nothing of music, as a science; and the most elaborate 
harmonies, if they please me, please as simply as a nurse’s 
lullaby. The strain has ceased, but prolongs itself in my 
mind, with fanciful echoes, till I start from my revery, and 
find that the sermon has commenced. It is my misfortune 
seldom to fructify, in a regular way, by any but printed ser- 
mons. The first strong idea, which the preacher utters, gives 
birth to a train of thought, and leads me onward, step by 
step, quite out of hearing of the good man’s voice, unless 
he be indeed a son of thunder. At my open window, catch- 
ing now and then a sentence of the “parson’s £aw,” I am as 

well situated as at the foot of the pulpit stairs. The broken 
and scattered fragments of this one discourse will be the texts 
of many sermons, preached by those colleague pastors, — col- 
leagues, but often disputants, — my Mind and Heart. The 
former pretends to be a scholar, and perplexes me with 
doctrinal points ; the latter takes me on the score of feeling ; 
and both, like several other preachers, spend their strength 
to very little purpose. I, their sole auditor, cannot always 
understand them. 


SUNDAY AT HOME 


53 


Suppose that a few hours have passed, and behold me 
still behind my curtain, just before the close of the after- 
noon service. The hour-hand on the dial has passed beyond 
four o’clock. The declining sun is hidden behind the steeple, 
and throws its shadow straight across the street, so that my 
chamber is darkened, as with a cloud. Around the church- 
door, all is solitude, and an impenetrable obscurity, beyond 
the threshold. A commotion is heard. The seats are 
slammed down, and the pew-doors thrown back, — a mul- 
titude of feet are trampling along the unseen aisles, — and the 
congregation bursts suddenly through the portal. Foremost, 

scampers a rabble of boys, behind whom moves a dense and 

* 

dark phalanx of grown men, and lastly, a crowd of females, 
with young children, and a few scattered husbands. This 
instantaneous outbreak of life into loneliness is one of the 
, pleasantest scenes of the day. Some of the good people are 
rubbing their eyes, thereby intimating that they have been 
wrapped, as it were, in a sort of holy trance, by the fervor 
of their devotion. There is a young man, a third rate cox- 
comb, whose first care is always to flourish a white handker- 
chief, and brush the seat of a tight pair of black silk panta- 
loons, which shine as if varnished. They must have been 
made of the stuff called “everlasting,” or perhaps of the same 
piece as Christian’s garments in the Pilgrim’s Progress, for 
he put them on two summers ago, and has not yet worn the 
gloss off. I have taken a great liking to those black silk 
pantaloons. But, now, with nods and greetings among friends, 
each matron takes her husband’s arm, and paces gravely home- 
ward, while the girls also flutter away, after arranging sunset 
walks with their favored bachelors. The Sabbath eve is the 
eve of love. At length, the whole congregation is dispersed. 
No ; here, with faces as glossy as black satin, come two 


54 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sable ladies and a sable gentleman, and close in their rear 
the minister, who softens his severe visage, and be- 
stows a kind word on each. Poor souls ! To them the 
most captivating picture of bliss in heaven is — “There we shall 
be white ! ,; ^ 

All is solitude again. But, hark ! — a broken warbling of 
voices, and now, attuning its grandeur to their sweetness, a 
stately peal of the organ. Who are the choristers? Let me 
dream that the angels, who came down from heaven, this 
blessed morn, to blend themselves with the worship of the 
truly good, are playing and singing their farewell to the earth. 
On the wings of that rich melody they were borne upward. 

This, gentle reader, is merely a flight of poetry. A few 
of the singing men and singing women had lingered behind 
their fellows, and raised their voices fitfully, and blew a care- 
less note upon the organ. Yet, it lifted my soul higher than 
all their former strains. They are gone, — the sons and 
daughters of music, — and the gray sexton is just closing 
the portal. For six days more* there will be no face of man 
in the pews, and aisles, and galleries, nor a voice in the pulpit, 
nor music in the choir. Was it worth while to rear this 
massive edifice, to be a desert in the heart of the town, and 
populous only for a few hours of each seventh day ? Oh ! 
but the church is a symbol of religion. May its site, which 
was consecrated on the day when the first tree was felled, 
be kept holy forever, a spot of solitude and peace, amid the 
trouble and vanity of our week-day world i There is a moral, 
and a religion too, even in the silent walls. And may the 
steeple still point heavenward, and be decked with the hal- 
lowed sunshine of the Sabbath morn! 


THE WEDDING KNELL 

There is a certain church in the city of New York, which 
| I have always regarded with peculiar interest, on account of 
; a marriage there solemnized, under very singular circum- 
! stances, • in my grandmother’s girlhood. That venerable lady 
chanced to be a spectator of the scene, and ever after made 
! it her favorite narrative. Whether the edifice now standing 
on the same site be the identical one to which she referred, 

I am not antiquarian enough to know ; nor would it be 
i worth while to correct myself, perhaps, of an agreeable error, \ 
by reading the date of its erection on the tablet over the door. 
It is a stately church, surrounded by an inclosure of the love- 
liest green, within which appear urns, pillars, obelisks, and 
other forms of monumental marble, the tributes of private 
affection, or more splendid memorials of historic dust. With 
such a place, though the tumult of the city rolls beneath its 
tower, one would be willing to connect some legendary 
interest. 

The marriage might be considered as the result of an 
early engagement, though there had been two intermediate 
weddings on the lady’s part, and forty years of celibacy on 
that of the gentleman. At sixty-five, Mr. Ellenwood was a shy, 
but not quite a secluded man ; selfish, like all men who brood 
over their own hearts, yet manifesting, on rare occasions, a 
vein of generous sentiment; a scholar, throughout life, though 
always an indolent one, because his studies had no definite 
object, either of public advantage or personal ambition ; a 

55 


56 


rWICE-TOLD TALE:. 


gentleman, high bred and fastidiously delicate, yet sometimes 
requiring a considerable relaxation, in his behalf, of the com- 
mon rules of society. In truth, there were so many anoma- 
lies in his character, and, though shrinking with diseased 
sensibility from public notice, it had been his fatality so often 
to become the topic of the day, by some wild eccentricity of 
conduct, that people searched his lineage for an hereditary 
taint of insanity. But there was no need of this. His 
caprices had their origin in a mind that lacked the support of 
an engrossing purpose, and in feelings that preyed upon them- 
selves, for want of other food. If he were mad, it was the 
consequence, and not the cause, of an aimless and abortive 
life. , 

The widow was as complete a contrast to her third bride- 
groom, in everything but age, as can well be conceived. 
Compelled to relinquish her first engagement, she had been 
united to a man of twice her own years, to whom she became 
an exemplary wife, and by whose death she was left in pos- 
session of a splendid fortune. A Southern gentleman, con- 
siderably younger than herself, succeeded to her hand, and 
carried her to Charleston, where, after many uncomfortable 
years, she found herself again a widow. It would have been 
singular, if any uncommon delicacy of feeling had survived 
through such a life as Mrs. Dabney’s; it could not but be 
crushed and killecj by her early disappointment, the cold duty 
of her first marriage, the dislocation of the heart's principles, 
consequent on a second union, and the unkindness of her 
Southern husband, which had inevitably driven her to connect 
the idea of his death with that of her comfort. To be brief, 
she was that wisest, but unloveliest variety of woman, a 
philosopher, bearing troubles of the heart with equanimity, 
dispensing with all that should have been her happiness, and 


THE WEDDING KNELL 


57 


making the best of what remained. Sage in most matters, 
the widow was perhaps the more amiable, for the one frailty 
that made her ridiculous. Being childless, she could not 
remain beautiful by proxy, in the person of a daughter; she 
therefore refused to grow old and ugly, on any consideration ; 
she struggled with Time, and held fast to her roses in spite 
of him, till the venerable thief appeared to have relinquished 
the spoil, as not worth the trouble of acquiring it. 

The approaching marriage of this woman of the world, 
with such an unworldly man as Mr. Ellenwood, was an- 
nounced soon after Mrs. Dabney’s return to her native city. 
Superficial observers, and deeper ones, seemed to concur in 
supposing that the lady must have borne no inactive part in 
arranging the affair; there were considerations of expediency, 
which she would be far more likely to appreciate than Mr. 
Ellenwood; and there was just the specious phantom of 
sentiment and romance, in this late union of two early lovers, 
which sometimes makes a fool of a woman, who has lost 
her true feelings among the accidents of life. All the wonder 
was, how the gentleman, with his lack of worldly wisdom, 
and agonizing consciousness of ridicule, could have been 
induced to take a measure at once so prudent and so laugh- 
able. But while people talked, the wedding-day arrived. The 
ceremony was to be solemnized according to the Episcopalian 
forms, and in open church, with a degree of publicity that 
attracted many spectators, who occupied the front seats 
of the galleries, and the pews near the altar and along the 
broad aisle. It had been arranged, or possibly it was the 
custom of the day, that the parties should proceed separately 
to church. By some accident, the bridegroom was a little 
less punctual than the widow and her bridal attendants; with 


Of. f 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


whos* ?rr iv?b aTer this tedious, but necessary preface, the 
nction of our tale may be said to commence. 

The elurnsy wheels of several old-fashioned co.aches were 
h^ard, and the gentlemen and ladies, composing the bridal 
party, came through the church-door, with the sudden and 
gladsome effect of a burst of sunshine. The whole group, 
except the principal figure, was made up of youth and gayety. 
As they streamed up the broad aisle, while the p«ws and 
pillars seemed to brighten on either side, their steps were as 
buoyant as if they mistook the church for a ball-room, and 
were ready to dance hand in hand to the altar. So brilliant 
was the spectacle, that few took notice of a singular phenom- 
enon that had marked its entrance. At the moment when the 
bride's foot touched the threshold, the bell swung heavily in 
*he tower above her, and sent forth its deepest knell. The 
vibrations died away and returned, with prolonged solemnity, 
as she entered the body of the church. 

“ Good heavens ! what an omen ! ” whispered a young lady 
to her lover. 

“ On my honor,” replied the gentleman, “ I believe the 
bell has the good taste to toll of its own accord. What 
has she to do with weddings? If you, dearest Julia, were 
approaching the altar, the bell would ring out its merriest 
peal. It has only a funeral knell for her.” 

The bride, and most of her company, had been too 
much occupied with the bustle of entrance, to hear the first 
boding stroke of the bell, or at least to reflect on the singular- 
ity of such a welcome to the altar. They therefore continued to 
advance, with undiminished gayety. The gorgeous dresses 
of the time, the crimson velvet coats, the gold-laced hats, the > 
hoop petticoats, the silk, satin, brocade, and embroidery, the 
buckles, canes, and swords, all displayed to the best advan- I 


THE WEDDING KNELL 


59 


tage on persons suited to such finery, made the group appear 
more like a bright-colored picture than anything real. But 
by what perversity of taste had the ardst represented his 
I principal figure as so wrinkled and decayed, while yet he had 
; decked her out in the finest splendor of attire, as if the love- 
liest maiden had suddenly withered into age, and become a 
' moral to the beautiful around her ! On they went, however, 
and had glittered along about a third of the aisle, when 
another stroke of the bell seemed to fill the church with a 
visible gloom, dimming and obscuring the bright pageant, till 
it shone forth again as from a mist. 

This time the party wavered, stopt, and huddled closer 
together, while a slight scream was heard from some of the 
; ladies, and a confused whispering among the gentlemen. 
Thus, tossing to and fro, they might have been fancifully 
compared to a splendid bunch of flowers, suddenly shaken 
by a puff of wind, which threatened to scatter the leave* 
of an old, brown, withered rose, on the same stalk with 
two dewy buds; such being the emblem of the widow be- 
tween her fair young bridemaids. But her heroism was 
admirable. She had started with an irrepressible shudder, 
as if the stroke of the bell had fallen directly on her heart; 
then, recovering herself, while her attendants were yet in 
dismay, she took the lead, and paced calmly up the aisle. 
The bell continued to swing, strike, and vibrate, with the 
same doleful regularity, as when a corpse is on its way to 
the tomb. 

“ My young friends here have their nerves a little 
shaken,” said the widow with a smile, to the clergyman at 
the altar. “ But so many weddings have been ushered in 
with the merriest peal of the bells, and yet turned out unhap- 


50 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


pily, that I shall hope for better fortune under such different 
auspices.” 

“ Madam,” answered the rector, in great perplexity, 
“this strange occurrence brings to my mind a marriage ser- 
mon of the famous Bishop Taylor, wherein he mingles so 
many thoughts of mortality and future woe, that, to speak 
somewhat after his own rich style, he seems to hang the 
bridal chamber in black, and cut the wedding garment out 
of a coffin pall. And it has been the custom of divers nations 
to infuse something of sadness into their marriage ceremonies ; 
so to keep death in mind, while contracting that engagement 
which is life’s chiefest business. Thus we may draw a sad 
but profitable moral from thi§ funeral knell.” 

But, though the clergyman might have given his moral 
even a keener point, he did not fail to despatch an attendant 
to inquire into the mystery, and stop those sounds, so dis- 
mally appropriate to such a marriage. A brief space elapsed, 
during which the silence was broken only by whispers, and 
a few suppressed titterings, among the wedding party and 
the spectators, who, after the first shock, were disposed to 
draw an ill-natured merriment from the affair. The young 
have less charity for aged follies than the old for those of 
youth. The widow’s glance was observed to wander, for an 
instant, towards a window of the church, as if searching for 
the time-worn marble that she had dedicated to her first hus- 
band ; then her eyelids dropt over their faded orbs, and her 
thoughts were drawn irresistibly to another grave. Two 
buried men, with a voice at her ear, and a cry afar off, were 
calling her to lie down beside them. Perhaps, with mo- 
mentary truth of feeling, she thought how much happier had 
been her fate, if, after years of bliss, the bell were now toll- 
ing for her funeral, and she were followed to the grave by 


THE WEDDING KNELL 


61 


the old affection of her earliest lover, long her husband. But 
why had she returned to him, when their cold hearts shrank 
from each other’s embrace. 

Still the death-bell tolled so mournfully, that the sunshine 
seemed to fade in the air. A whisper, communicated from 
those who stood nearest the windows, now spread through 
the church ; a hearse, with a train 0/ several coaches, was 
creeping along the street, conveying some dead man to the 
churchyard, while the bride awaited a living one at the altar. 
Immediately after, the footsteps of the bridegroom and his 
friends were heard at the door. The widow looked down the 
aisle, and clenched the arm of one of her bridemaids in her 
bony hand, with such unconscious violence, that the fair girl 
trembled. 

“You frighten me,_ my dear madam!” cried she. “For 
heaven’s sake, what is the matter?” 

| “ Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said the widow ; then 
whispering close to her ear, — “There is a foolish fancy 
that I cannot get rid of. I am expecting my bridegroom to 
come into the church, with my first two husbands for grooms- 
men ! ” 

“Look, look!” screamed the bridemaid. “What is here? 
The funeral ! ” 

As she spoke, a dark procession paced into the church. 
First came an old man and woman, like chief mourners at 
a funeral, attired from head to foot in the deepest black, all 
but their pale features and hoary hair; he leaning on a staff, 
and supporting her decrepit form with his nerveless arm. 
Behind, appeared another; and another pair, as aged, as black, 
and mournful as the first. As they drew near, the widow 
recognized in every face- some trait of former friends, long 
forgotten, but now returning, as if from their old graves, to 


62 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


warn her to prepare a shroud ; or, with purpose almost as 
unwelcome, to exhibit their wrinkles and infirmity, and claim 
her as their companion by the tokens of her own decay. Many 
a merry night had she danced with them, in youth. And now, 
in joyless age, she felt that some withered partner should 
request her hand, and all unite, in a dance of death, to the 
music of the funeral bell. 

While these aged mourners were passing up the aisle, it 
was observed, that, from pew to pew, the spectators shud- 
dered with irrepressible awe, as some object hitherto con- 
cealed by the intervening figures came full in sight. Many 
turned away their faces ; others kept a fixed and rigid stare ; 
and a young girl giggled hysterically, and fainted with the 
laughter on her lips. When the spectral procession approached 
the altar, each couple separated, and slowly diverged, till, in 
the centre, appeared a form, that had been worthily ushered 
in with all this gloomy pomp, the death knell, and the funeral, j 
It was the bridegroom in his shroud ! 

No garb but that of the grave could have befitted such a 
death-like aspect ; the eyes, indeed, had the wild gleam of a 
sepulchral lamp ; all else was fixed in the stern calmness , 
which old men wear in the coffin. The corpse stood motion- j 
less, but addressed the widow in accents that seemed to melt 
into the clang of the bell, which fell heavily on the air while j 
he spoke. 

“Come, my bride!” said those pale lips, “the hearse is 
ready. The sexton stands waiting for us at the door of the 
tomb. Let us be married ; and then to our coffins ! ” 


How shall the widow’s horror be represented ! It gave her 
the ghastliness of a dead man’s bride. Her youthful friends 1 
stood apart, shuddering at the mourners, the shrouded bride- 


groom, and herself ; the whole scene expressed, by the strong- 


/ 


THE WEDDING KNELL 


63 


est imagery, the vain struggle of the gilded vanities of this 
world, when opposed \o age, infirmity, sorrow, and death. 
The awe-struck silence was first broken by the clergyman. 

“ Mr. Ellenwood,” said he, soothingly, yet with somewhat 
of authority, “you are not well. Your mind has been agitated 
by the unusual circumstances in which you are placed. The 
ceremony must be deferred. As an old friend, let me entreat 
you to return home.” 

“ Home ! yes ; but not without my bride,” answered he, 
in the same hollow accents. “You deem this mockery, per- 
haps madness. Had I bedizened my aged and broken frame, 
with scarlet and embroidery, — had I forced my withered 
lips to smile at my dead heart, — that might have been mock- 
ery, or madness. But now, let young and old declare, which 
of us has come hither without a wedding garment, the bride- 
groom or the bride ! ” 

He stepped forward at a ghostly pace, and stood beside the 
widow, contrasting the awful simplicity of his shroud with the 
glare and glitter in which she had arrayed herself for this 
unhappy scene. None, that beheld them, could deny the terri- 
ble strength of the moral which his disordered intellect had 
contrived to draw. 

“ Cruel ! cruel ! ” groaned the heart- stricken bride. 

“Cruel ?” repeated he; then losing his death-like compo- 
sure in a wild bitterness, “Heaven judge which of us has 
been cruel to the other ! In youth, you deprived me of my 
happiness, my hopes, my aims ; you took away all the sub- 
stance of my life, and made it a dream, without reality 
enough even to grieve at, — with only a pervading gloom, 
through which I walked wearily, and cared not whither. 
But after forty years, when I have built my tomb, and would 
not give up the thought of resting there, — no, not for such 


64 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


a life as we once pictured, — you call me to the altar. At 
your summons I am here. But other husbands have enjoyed 
your youth, your beauty, your warmth of heart, and all that 
could be termed your life. What is there for me but your 
decay and death? And therefore I have bidden these funeral 
friends, and bespoken the sexton’s deepest knell, and am come, 
in my shroud, to wed you, as with a burial service, that we 
may join our hands at the door of the sepulchre, and enter it 
together.” 

It was not frenzy; it was not merely the drunkenness of 
strong emotion, in a heart unused to it, that now wrought 
upon the bride. The stern lesson of the day had done its 
work ; her worldliness was gone. She seized the bride- 
groom’s hand. 

“Yes!” cried she. “Let us wed, even at the door of the 
sepulchre! My life has gone in vanity and emptiness. But, 
at its close, there is one true feeling. It has made me what 
I was in youth ; it makes me worthy of you. Time is no 
more for both of us. Let us wed for eternity ! ” 

With a long and deep regard, the bridegroom looked info 
her eyes, while a tear was gathering in his own. How strange 
that gush of human feeling from the frozen bosom of a 
corpse ! He wiped away the tear even with his shroud. 

“ Beloved of my youth,” said he, “ I have been wild. The 
despair of my whole lifetime had returned at once, and mad- 
dened me. Forgive; and be forgiven. Yes; it is evening 
with us now ; and we have realized none of our morning 
dreams of happiness. But let us join our hands before the 
altar, as lovers whom adverse circumstances have separated 
through life, yet who meet again as they are leaving it, and 
find their earthly affection changed into something holy as 
religion. And what is Time, to the marriage of Eternity?” 


THE WEDDING KNELL 


65 


Amid the tears of many, and a swell of exalted sentiment, 
in those who felt aright, was solemnized the union of two 
immortal souls. The train of withered mourners, the hoary 
bridegroom in his shroud, the pale features of the aged bride, 
and the death-bell tolling through the whole, till its deep 
voice overpowered the marriage words,’ all marked the funeral 
of earthly hopes. But as the ceremony proceeded, the organ, 
as if stirred by the sympathies of this impressive scene, poured 
forth an anthem, first mingling with the dismal knell, then 
rising to a loftier strain, till the soul looked down upon its 
woe. And when the awful rite was finished, and, with cold 
hand in cold hand, the Married of Eternity withdrew, the 
organ’s peal of solemn triumph drowned the Wedding Knell. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 

A PARABLE .* 

The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting-house, 
pulling lustily at the bell-rope. The old people of the village 
came stooping along the street. Children with bright faces 
tript merrily beside their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, 
in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce 
bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied 
that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on week- 
days. When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, 
the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Rev- 
erend Mr. Hooper’s door. The first glimpse of the clergy- 
man’s figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons. 

“But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?” 
cried the sexton, in astonishment. 

All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld 
the semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly his meditative 
way towards the meeting-house. With one accord they started, 
expressing more wonder than if some strange minister were 
coming to dust the cushions of Mr. Hooper’s pulpit. 

“Are you sure it is our parson?” inquired Goodman Gray 
of the sexton. 

“ Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper,” replied the sexton. 

* Another clergyman in New England, Mr. Joseph Moody, of York, 
Maine, who died about eighty years since, made himself remarkable by 
the same eccentricity that is here related of the Reverend Mr. Hooper. 
In his case, however, the symbol had 'a different import. In early life 
he had accidentally killed a beloved friend; and from that day till the 
hour of his own death, he hid his face from men. — [Author’s Note.] 

66 


THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL 


67 


“ He was to have exchanged pulpits witli Parson Shute, of 
Westbury; but Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yester- 
day, being to preach a funeral sermon.” 

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently 
slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly person, of about thirty, 
though still a bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neat- 
ness, as if a careful wife had starched his band and brushed 
the weekly dust from his Sunday’s garb. There was but one 
thing remarkable in his appearance. Swathed about his fore- 
i head, and hanging down over his face, so low as to be shaken 
j by h^s breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. On a nearer 
view, it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which entirely 

I concealed his features, except the mouth and chin, but prob- 
ably did not intercept his sight, farther than to give a dark- 
ened aspect to all living and inanimate things. With this 
gloomy shade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked onward, 
at a slow and quiet pace, stooping somewhat, and looking on 
the ground, as is customary with abstracted men, yet nodding 
kindly to those of his parishioners who still waited on the 
meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck were they, that 
his greeting hardly met with a return. 

“ I can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face is behind 
that piece of crape,” said the sexton. 

“ I don’t like it,” muttered an old woman, as she hobbled 
into the meeting-house. “He has changed himself into some- 
thing awful, only by hiding his face.” 

“ Our parson has gone mad ! ” cried Goodman Gray, fol- 
lowing him across the threshold. 

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded 
Mr. Hooper into the meeting-house, and set all the congrega- 
tion astir. Few could refrain from twisting their heads 
towards the door; many stood upright, and turned directly 


68 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


about; while several little boys clambered upon the seats, and 
came down again with a terrible racket. There was a general 
bustle, a rustling of the women’s gowns and shuffling of the 
men’s feet, greatly at variance with that hushed repose which 
should attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper 
appeared not to nQtice the perturbation of his people. He 
entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to 
the pews on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest pa- 
rishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who occupied an arm- 
chair in the centre of the aisle. It was strange to observe how 
slowly this venerable man became conscious of something sin- 
gular in the appearance of his pastor. He seemed not fully 
to partake of the prevailing wonder, till Mr. Hooper had 
ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, face to 
face with his congregation, except for the black veil. That 
mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with 
his measured breath as he gave out the psalm ; it threw its 
obscurity between him and the holy page, as he read the 
Scriptures ; and while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his 
uplifted countenance. Did he seek to hide 'it from the dread 
Being whom he was addressing? 

Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, that 
more than one yoman of delicate nerves was forced to leave 
the meeting-house. Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation 
ivas almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his black veil 
to them. 

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not 
an energetic one: he strove to win his people heavenward by 
mild, persuasive influences, rather than to drive them thither 
by the thunders of the Word. The sermon which he now 
delivered was marked by the same characteristics of style 
and manner as the general series of his pulpit oratory. But 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 


69 


there was something, either in the sentiment of the discourse 
itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, which made it 
greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever heara 
from their pastor’s lips. It was tinged, rather more darkly 
than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper’s tempera- 
ment. The subject had reference to secret sin, and those sad 
mysteries which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and 
would fain conceal from our own consciousness, even for- 
getting that the Omniscient can detect them. A subtle power 
was breathed into his words. Each member of the congrega- 
tion, the most innocent girl and the man of hardened breast, 
felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind his awful 
veil, and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. 
Many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. There was 
nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said ; at least, no vio- 
lence ; and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the 

! 

hearers quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with 
awe. So sensible were the audience of some unwonted attri- 
bute in their minister, that they longed for a breath of wind 
f to blow aside the veil, almost believing that a stranger’s visage 
would be discovered, though the form, gesture, and voice were 
| those of Mr. Hooper. 

At the close of the services, the people hurried out with 
| indecorous confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up 
I amazement, and conscious of lighter spirits, the moment they 
I lost sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little circles, 
i huddled closely together, with their mouths all whispering 
in the centre ; some went homeward alone, wrapt in silent 
meditation ; some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath 
! day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sa- 
gacious heads, intimating that they could penetrate the 
mystery ; while one or two affirmed that there was no mystery 


70 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


at all, but only that Mr. Hooper’s eyes were so weakened by 
the midnight lamp as to require a shade. After a brief inter- 
val, forth came good Mr. Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. 
Turning his veiled face from one group to another, he paid 
due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the middle-aged with 
kind dignity, as their friend and spiritual guide, greeted the 
young with mingled authority and love, and laid his hands on 
the little children’s heads to bless them. Such was always his 
custom on the Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered lopks 
repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, 
aspired to the honor of walking by their pastor’s side. Old 
Squire Saunders, doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, 
neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where the good 
clergyman had been wont to bless the food, almost every 
Sunday since his settlement. He returned, therefore, to the 
parsonage, and, at the moment of closing the door, was ob- 
served to look back upon the people, all of whom had their 
eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly 
from beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, 
glimmering as he disappeared. 

“ How strange,” said a lady, “ that a simple black veil, such 
as any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such 
a terrible thing on Mr. Hooper’s face ! ” 

“ Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper’s intel- 
lects,” observed her husband, the physician of the village. 
“ But the strangest part of the affair is the effect of this 
vagary, even on a sober-minded man like myself. The black 
veil, though it covers only our pastor’s face, throws its influ- 
ence over his whole person, and makes him ghost-like from 
head to foot. Do you- not feel it so ? ” 

“Truly do I,” replied the lady; “and I would not be alone 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 


71 


with him for the world. I wonder if he’s not afraid to be 
alone with himself ! ” 

“ Men sometimes are so,” said her husband. 

The afternon service was attended with similar circum- 
stances. At its conclusion the bell tolled for the funeral of 
a young lady. The relatives and friends were assembled in 
the house, and the more distant acquaintances stood about 
the door, speaking of the good qualities of the deceased, when 
their talk was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, 
still covered with his black veil. It was now an appropriate 
emblem. The clergyman stepped into -the room where the 
corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a last fare- 
well of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil hung 
straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eyelids had 
not been closed forever, the dead maiden might have seen 
his face. Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he 
so hastily caught back the black veil? A person, who watched 
the interview between the dead and living scrupled not to 
affirm, that, at the instant when the clergyman’s features were 
disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered, rustling the 
shroud and muslin cap, though the countenance retained the 
composure of death. A superstitious old woman was the only 
witness of this prodigy. From the coffin Mr. Hooper passed 
into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of 
the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender 
and heart-dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet so imbued with 
celestial hopes, that the music of a heavenly harp, swept by ( 
the fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard among 
the saddest accents of the minister. The people trembled, 
though they but darkly understood him when he prayed that 
they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, as 
he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful hour 


72 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


that should snatch the veil from their races. The bearers 
went heavily forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all 
the street, with the dead before them, and Mr. Hooper and 
his black veil behind. 

“ Why do you look back ? ” said one in the procession to 
his partner. 

“ I had a fancy,” replied she, “ that the minister and the 
maiden’s spirit were walking hand in hand.” 

“ And so had I, at the same moment,” said the other. 

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village were 
to be joined in wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, 
Mr. Hooper had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, 
which often excited a sympathetic smile, where livelier mer- 
riment would have been thrown away. There was no quality 
of his disposition which made him more beloved than this. 
The company at the wedding awaited his arrival with impa- 
tience, trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered over 
him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But such 
was not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the first thing 
that their eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil, 
which had added deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend 
nothing but evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate 
effect on the guests, that a cloud seemed to have rolled duskily 
from beneath the black crape, and dimmed the light of the 
candles. The bridal pair stood up before the minister. But 
the bride’s cold fingers quivered in the tremulous hand of the 
bridegroom, and her death-like paleness caused a whisper that 
the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was 
come from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding 
were so dismal, it was that famous one where they tolled the 
wedding knell. *After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper 

* See the tale under this title, p. 53. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 


73 


raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing happiness to the 
new married couple, in a strain of mild pleasantry, that ought 
to have brightened the features of the guests, like a cheerful 
gleam from the hearth. At that instant, catching a glimpse 
of his figure in the looking-glass, the black veil involved his 
own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed all others. 
His frame shuddered, — his lips grew white, — he spilt the? 
untasted wine upon the carpet, — and rushed forth into the 
darkness. For the Earth, too, had on her Black Veil. 

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little 
else than Parson Hooper’s black veil. That, and the mystery 
concealed behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between 
acquaintances meeting in the street and good women gossiping 
at their open windows. It was the first item of news that the 
tavern-keeper told to his guests. The children babbled of it 
on their way to school. One imitative little imp covered his 
face with an old black handkerchief, thereby so affrighting 
his playmates that the panic seized himself, and he wellnigh 
lost his wits by his own waggery. 

It was remarkable that, of all the busybodies and imperti- 
nent people in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain 
question to Mr. Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hith- 
erto, whenever there appeared the slightest call for such inter- 
ference, he had never lacked advisers, nor shown himself ad- 
verse to be guided by their judgment. If he erred at all, it 
was by so painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the mild- 
est censure would lead him to consider an indifferent action as 
a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable 
weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose toN 
make the black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There 
was a feeling of dread, neither plainly confessed, nor care- 
fully concealed, which caused each to shift the responsibility 


74 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


upon another, till at length it was found expedient to send a 
deputation of the church, in order to deal with Mr. Hooper 
about the mystery, before it should grow into a .scandal. 
Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister 
received them with friendly courtesy, but became silent, after 
they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burthen 
of introducing their important business. The topic, it might 
be supposed, was obvious enough. There was the black veil, 
swathed round Mr. Hooper’s forehead, and concealing every 
feature above his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could 
perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. But that piece 
of crape, to their imagination, seemed to hang down before his 
heart, the symbol of a fearful secret between him and them. 
Were the veil but cast aside, they might speak freely of it, 
but. not till then. Thus they sat, a considerable time, speechless, 
confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper’s eye, which 
they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. 
Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, 
pronouncing the matter too weighty to be handled, except by 
a council of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a 
general synod. 

But there was one person in the village, unappalled by the 
awe with which the black veil had impressed all beside herself. 
When the deputies returned without an explanation, or even 
venturing to demand one, she, with the calm energy of her 
character, determined to chasfe away the strange cloud that 
appeared to be settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment 
more darkly than before. As his plighted wife, it should be 
/her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. At the 
minister’s first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject, 
with a direct simplicity which made the task easier both for 
him and her. After he had seated himself, she fixed her 


75 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 

eyes steadfastly upon the veil, but could discern nothing of 
the dreadful gloom that had so overawed the multitude; it 
was but a double fold of crape, hanging down from his fore- 
head to his mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath. 

“ No,” said she aloud, and smiling, “ there is nothing terri- 
ble in this piece of crape, except that it hides a face which 
I am always glad to look upon. Come, good sir, let tVie sun 
shine from behind the cloud. First lay aside your black veil : 
then tell me why you put it on.” 

Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly. 

“ There is an hour to come,” said he, “ w^en all of us 
shall cast aside our veils. Take it not amiss, 1 eloved 
friend, if I wear this piece of crape till then.” 

“ Your words are a mystery too,” returned the young lady. 
“Take away the veil from them, at least.” 

“ Elizabeth, I will,” said he, “ so far as my vow may suffer 
me. Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am 
bound to wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude 
and before the gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so 
with my familiar friends. No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. 
This dismal shade must separate me from the world : even 
you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it ! ” 

“ What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” she earnestly 
inquired, “that you should thus darken your eyes forever?” 

“ If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. Hooper, “ I, 
perhaps, like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to 
be typified by a black veil.” 

“ But what if the world will not believe that it is the type 
of an innocent sorrow ? ” urged Elizabeth. “ Beloved and 
respected as you are, there may be whispers, that you hide 
your face under the consciousness of secret sin. For the sake 
of your holy office, do away this scandal l” 


76 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature 
of the rumors that were already abroad in the village. But 
Mr. Hooper’s mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled 
again, — that same sad smile, which always appeared like a 
faint glimmering of light, proceeding from the obscurity be- 
neath the veil. 

“ If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough,” he 
merely replied ; “ and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal 
might not do the same ? ” 

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he 
resist all her entreaties. At length Elizabeth sat silent. For 
a few moments she appeared lost in thought, considering, 
probably, what new methods might be tried to withdraw her 
lover from so dark a fantasy, which, if it had no other mean- 
ing, was perhaps a symptom of mental disease. Though of a 
firmer character than his own, the tears rolled down her 
cheeks. But in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took the 
place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the- black 
veil, when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its terrors fell 
around her. She arose, and stood trembling before him, 

“ And do you feel it then at last ? ” said he, mournfully. 

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand, and 
turned to leave the room. He rushed forward and caught 
her arm. 

“ Have patience with me, Elizabeth ! ” cried he, passionately. 
“ Do not desert me, though this veil must be between us here 

on earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over 

\ 

my face, no darkness between our souls ! It is but a mortal 
veil, — it is not for eternity! Oh, you know not how lonely I 
am, and how frightened, to be alone behind my black veil! 
Do not leave me in this miserable obscurity forever!” 

“ Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face,” said she. 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 77 

/ 

“ Never ! It cannot be ! ” replied Mr. Hooper. 

“ Then, farewell ! ” said Elizabeth. 

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, 
pausing at the door, to give one long, shuddering gaze, that 
seemed almost to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. 
But, even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only 
a material emblem had separated him from happiness, though 
the horrors which it shadowed fcrch must be drawn darkly 
between the fondest of lovers. 

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. 
Hooper’s black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover the 
secret which it was supposed to hide. By persons who claimed 
a superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned merely an 
eccentric whim, such as often mingles with the sober actions 
of men otherwise rational, and tinges them all with its own 
semblance of insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. 
Hooper was irreparably a jugbear. He could not walk the 
street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the 
gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that 
others would make it a point of hardihood to throw them- 
selves in his way. The impertinence of the latter class com- 
pelled him to give up his customary walk, at sunset, to the 
burial-ground, for when he leaned pensively over the gate, there 
would always be faces behind the gravestones, peeping at his 
black veil. A fable went the rounds, that the star^ of the 
dead people drove him thence. It grieved him, to the very 
depth of his kind heaft, to observe how the children fled from 
his approach, breaking up their merriest sports, while his 
melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread 
caused him to feel, more strongly than aught else, that a 
preternatural horror was interwoven with the threads ^of the 
black crape. In truth, his own antipathy to the veil was known 


78 


TWICE-TOlD TALES . 


to be so great, that he never willingly passed before a -mirror, 
nor stooped to drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful 
bosom, he should be affrighted by himself. This was what 
gave plausibility to the whispers, that Mr. Hooper’s con- 
science tortured him for some great crime too horrible to be 
entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely intimated. 
Thus, from beneath the black veil, there rolled a cloud into 
the sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped 
the poor minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach 
him. It was said, that ghost and fiend consorted with him 
there. With self-shudderings and outward terrors, he walked 
continually in its shadow, groping darkly within his own soul, 
or gazing through a medium that saddened the whole world. 
Even the lawless wind, it is believed, respected his dreadful 
secret, and never blew aside the veil. But still good Mr. 
Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the worldly thropg 
as he passed by. 

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one 
desirable effect, of making its wearer a very efficient clergy- 
man. By the aid of his mysterious emblem — for there was 
no other apparent cause — he became a man of awful power, 
over souls that were in agony for sin. His converts always 
regarded him with a dread peculiar to themselves, affirming, 
though but figuratively, that, before he brought them to celes- 
tial light, they had been with him behind the black veil. Its 
gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympathize with all dark affec- 
tions. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper, and would 
not yield their breath till he appeared ; though ever, as he 
stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the veiled 
face so near their own. Such were the terrors of the black 
veil, even when Death had bared his visage ! Strangers came 
long distances to attend service at his church, with the mere 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 


79 


idle purpose of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden 
them to behold his face. But many were made to quake ere 
they departed ! Once, during Governor Belcher’s administra- 
tion, Mr. Hooper was appointed to preach the election ser- 
mon. Covered with his black veil, he stood before the chief 
magistrate, the council, and the representatives, and wrought 
so deep an impression, that the legislative measures of that 
year were characterized by all the gloom and piet / of our 
earliest ancestral sway. 

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, ir/eproach- 
able in outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions ; kind 
and loving, though unloved, and dimly feared; a man apart 
fr m men, shunned in their health and joy, but e/er sum- 
moned to their aid in mortal anguish. As years wore on, shed- 
ding their snows above his sable veil, he acquired a name 
throughout the New England churches, and they called him 
Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, who were of 
mature age when he was settled, had been borne away by 
many a funeral : he had one congregation in the church, and 
a more qrowded one in the churchyard ; and having wrought 
so late into the evening, and done his work so well, it was 
now good Father Hooper’s turn to rest. 

Several persons were visible by the shaded candle-light, in 
the death-chamber of the old clergyman. Natural connexions 
he had none. But there was the decorously grave, though 
unmoved physician, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs 
of the patient whom he could not save. There were the 
deacons, and other eminently pious members of his church. 
There, also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, a 
young and zealous divine, who had ridden in haste to pray by 
the bedside of the expiring minister. There was the nurse, 
no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection 


80 


TWIC i'OLD TALES 


had endured thus long* in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill 
of age, and would not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, 
but Elizabeth ! And there lay the hoary head of good Father 
Hooper upon the death-pillow, with the black veil still 
swathed about his brow, and reaching down over his face, 
so that each more difficult gasp of his faint breath caused it 
to stir. All through life that piece of crape had hung between 
him and the world : it had separated him from cheerful broth- 
erhood and woman’s love, and kept him in that saddest of all 
prisons, his own heart ; and still it lay upon his face, as if to 
deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him 
from the sunshine of eternity. 

For some time previous, his mind had been confused, waver- 
ing doubtfully between the past and the present, and hovering 
forward, as rt were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the 
world to come. There had been feverish turns, which tossed 
him from side to side, and wore away what little strength 
he had. But in his most convulsive struggles, and in the 
wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no ether thought retained 
its sober influence, he still showed an awful solicitude lest 
the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered soul 
could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pil- . 
low, who, with averted eyes, would have covered that aged 
face, which she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. 
At length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor 
of mental and bodily exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse, 
and breath that grew fainter and fainter, except when a long, 
deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude the flight 
of his spirit. 

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside. 

“Venerable Father Hooper,” said he, “the moment of your 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 


81 


release is at hand. Are you ready for the lifting of the veil, 
that shuts in time from eternity ? ” 

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion 
of his head ; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning 
might be doubtful, he exerted himself to speak. 

“ Yea,” said he in faint accents, “ iy soul hath a patient 
weariness until that veil be lifted.” 

“And is it fitting,” resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, “that 
a man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy 
in deed and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pro- 
nounce, — is it fitting that a father in the church should leave 
a shadow on his memory, that may seem to blacken a life so 
pure ? I pray you, my venerable brother, let not this thing 
be ! Suffer us to be gladdened by your triumphant aspect, as 
you go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity be lifted, 
let me' cast aside this black veil from your face ! 

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark, bent forward 
to reveal the mystery of so many years. But, exerting a 
sudden energy, that made all the beholders stand aghast, 
Father Hooper snatched both his hands from beneath the bed- 
clothes, and pressed them strongly on the black veil, resolute 
to struggle, if the minister of Westbury would contend with 
a dying man. 

“ Never ! ” cried the veiled clergyman. “ On earth, never ! ” 

“ Dark old man ! ” exclaimed the affrighted minister, “ with 
what horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the 
judgment ? ” 

Father Hooper’s breath heaved ; it rattled in his throat ; but 
with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his hands, he 
caught hold of life, and held it back till he should speak. He 
even raised himself in bed ; and there he sat, shivering with the 
Arms of death around him, while the black veil hung down, 


82 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


awful, at that last moment, in the gathered terrors of a life- 
time. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed 
to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on Father Hooper’s 
lips. 

“Why do you tremble at me alone ?” cried he, turning his 
veiled face round the circle of pale spectators. “Tremble also 
at each other! Have men avoided me, and women shiwn no 
pity, and children screamed and fled, only for my black veil ? 
What, but the mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made 
this piece of crape so awful ? When the friend shows his 
inmost heart to his friend : the lover to his best beloved : when 
man does not vainly shrink from the eye of his Creator, 
loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin ; then deem me 
a monster, for the symbol beneath which I have lived, and 
die ! I look around me, and, lo ! on every visage a Black 
Veil ! ” 

While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual 
affright, Father Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled 
corpse, with a faint smile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, 
they laid him in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him to 
the grave. The grass of many years has sprung up and with- 
ered on that grave, the burial-stone is moss-grown, and good 
Mr. Hooper’s faceAs dust; but awful is still the thought, that 
it mouldered beneath the Black Veil ! 


J 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


' [In 1622 some members of the Church of England, under the 
leadership of Thomas Morton, attempted to establish a colony 
at Merry Mount, on the site cf the present town of Quincy. 
Governor Bradford of Plymouth soon accused them of athe- 
ism. “ They quaff strong waters, and comport themselves as 
if they had anew revived and celebrated the feasts of the 
Roman goddess Flora, or the beastly practices of the mad 
Bacchanalians,” said the Governor. In the summer of 1628 h^ 
dispatched Miles Standish against them, and the unhappy 
people of Merry Mount were dispersed. Their greatest sins 
seem to have been the sale of fire-arms to the natives, and the 
maintenance of a May-Pole eighty feet high, about which they 
were said to frolic with the Indians. (See John Fiske’s Be- 
ginnings of New England, pp. 91 ff.) ] 

Bright were the days at Merry Mount, when the May- Pole 
was the banner staff of that gay colony! They who reared 
it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine 
over New England’s rugged hills, and scatter flower-seeds 
throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were contending for 
an empire. Midsummer eve had come, bringing deep ver- 
dure to the forest, and roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue 
than the tender buds of Spring. But May, or her mirthful 
spirit, dwelt all the year round at Merry Mount, sporting witff 
the summer months, and revelling with Autumn, and bask- 
ing in the glow of Winter’s fireside. Through a world of toil 
and care she flitted with a dream-like smile, and came hither 
to find a home among the lightsome hearts of Merry Mount. 

Never had the May-Pole been so gayly decked as at sunset 
on midsummer eve. This venerated emblem was a pine-tree, 
which had preserved the slender grace of vouth, while it 

83 


84 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


equaled the loftiest height of the old wood monarchs. From 
its top streamed a silken banner, colored like the rainbow. 
Down nearly to the ground, the pole was dressed with birchen 
‘boughs, and others of the liveliest green, and some with sil- 
very leaves, fastened by ribbons that fluttered in fantastic knots 
of twenty different colors, but no sad ones. Garden flowers 
and blossoms of the wilderness laughed gladly forth amid the 
verdure, so fresh and dewy, that they must haye grown by 
magic, on that happy pine-tree. Where this green and flowery 
splendor terminated, the shaft of the May- Pole was stained 
with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at its top. On the 
lowest green bough hung an abundant wreath of roses, some 
that had been gathered in the sunniest spots of the forest, and 
others, of still richer blush, which the colonists had reared 
from English seed. O people of the Golden Age, the chief of 
your husbandry was to raise flowers ! 

But what was the wild throng that stood hand in hand about 
the May-Pole? It could not be, that the fauns and nymphs, 
when driven from their classic groves and homes of ancient 
fable, had, sought refuge, as all the persecuted did, in the 
fresh woods of the West. These were Gothic monsters, 
though perhaps of Grecian ancestry. On the shoulders of a 
comely youth uprose the head and branching antlers of a stag ; 
a second, human in all other points, had the grim visage of a 
wolf ; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal man, 
showed the beard and norns of a venerable he-goat. There 
was the likeness of a bear erect, brute in all but his hind 
legs, which were adorned with pink silk stockings. And here 
again, almost as wondrous, stood a real bear of the dark forest, 
lending each of his fore-paws to the grasp of a human hand, 
and as ready for the dance as any in that circle. His inferior 
nature rose half-way, to meet his companions as they stooped 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


85 


Other faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but dis- 
torted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous before their 
mouths, which seemed of awful depth, and stretched from ear 
to ear in an eternal fit of laughter. Here might be seen the 
Salvage Man, well known in heraldry, hairy as a baboon, 
and girdled with green leaves. By his side, a nobler figure, 
but still a counterfeit, appeared an Indian hunter, with feath- 
ery crest and wampum belt. Many of this strange company 
wore foolscaps, and had little bells appended to their garments, 
tinkling with a silvery sound, responsive to the inaudible 
music of their gleesome spirits. Some youths and maidens 
were of soberer garb, yet well maintained their places in the 
irregular throng, by the expression of wild revelry upon their 
features. Such were the colonists of Merry Mount, as they 
stood in the broad smile of sunset, round their venerated 
May- Pole. 

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy forest, heard 
their mirth, and stolen a half-affrighted glance, he might have 
fancied them the crew of Comus, some already transformed 
to brutes, some midway between man and beast, and the others 
rioting in the flow of tipsy jollity that foreran the change. 
But a band of Puritans, who watched the scene, invisible them- 
selves, compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls 
with whom their superstition peopled the black wilderness. 

Within the ring of monsters appeared the two airiest forms 
that had ever trodden on any more solid footing than a purple 
and golden cloud. One was a youth in glistening apparel, with 
a scarf of the rainbow pattern crosswise on his breast. His 
right hand held a gilded staff, the ensign of high dignity 
among the revelers, and his left grasped the slender fingers 
of a fair maiden, not less gaily decorated than himself. Bright 
roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls z'f 


86 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


each, and were scattered round their feet, or had sprung up 
spontaneously there. Behind this lightsome couple, so close to 
the May- Pole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the 
figure of an English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked 
with flowers, in heathen fashion, and wearing a chaplet of 
the native vine-leaves. By the riot of his rolling eye, and the 
pagan decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the wildest 
monster there, and the very Comus of the crew. 

“Votaries of the May-Pole,” cried the flower-decked priest,. 
“ merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed to your mirth. 
But be this your merriest hour, my hearts ! Lo, here stand 
the Lord and Lady of the May, whom I, a clerk of Oxford, 
and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently to join in holy 
matrimony. Up with your nimble spirits, ye morrice-dancers, 
green men, and glee-maidens, bears and wolves, and horned 
gentlemen ! Come ; a chorus now, rich with the old mirth of 
Merry England, and the wilder glee of this fresh fores.t ; and 
then a dance, to show the youthful pair what life is made of, 
and how airily they should go through it! All ye that love 
the May-Pole, lend your voices to^the nuptial song of the 
Lord and Lady of the May!” 

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry 
Mount, where jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a 
continual carnival. The Lord and Lady of the" May, though 
their titles must be laid down at sunset, were really and 
truly to be partners for the dance of life, beginning the meas- 
ure that same bright eve. The wreath of roses, that hung 
from the lowest green bough of the May- Pole, had been 
twined for them, and would be thrown over both their heads, 
in symbol of their flowery union. When the priest had 
spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the rout of 
monstrous figures. 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


8? 


“ Begin you the stave, reverend Sir,” cried they all ; “ and 
never did the woods ring to such a merry peal, as we of the 
May-Pole shall send up ! ” 

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern,* and viol, touched 
with practised minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring 
thicket, in such a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the 
May- Pole quivered to the sound. But the May Lord, he of 
the gilded staff, chancing to look into his Lady’s eyes, was 
wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that met his own. 

“ Edith, sweet Lady of the May,” whispered he, reproach- 
fully, “ is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang above our 
graves, that you look so sad? O Edith, this is our golden 
time! Tarnish it not by any pensive shadow of the mind; 
for it may be that nothing of futurity will be brighter than 
the mere remembrance of what is now passing.” 

'* That was the very thought that saddened me ! How came 
it in your mind too?” said Edith, in a still lower tone than 
he ; for it was high treason to be sad at Merry Mount. 
“ Therefore do I sigh amid this festive music. And besides, 
dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream, and fancy that these 
shapes of our jovial friends are visionary, . and their mirth un- 
real, and that we are no true Lord and Lady of the May. 
What is the mystery in my heart?” 

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a 
little shower of withering rose-leaves from the May-Pole. 
Alas, for the young lovers! No sooner had their hearts 
glowed with real passion, than they were sensible of 
something vague and unsubstantial in their former pleas- 
ures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. 
From the moment that they truly loved, they had subject- 
ed themselves to earth’s doom of care and sorrow, and 
troubled joy, and had no more a home at Merry Mount. That 


( 


88 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


was Edith’s mystery. Now leave we the priest to marry 
them, and the masquers to sport round the May- Pole, tiil 
the last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit, and the 
shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance. Mean- 
while, we may discover who these gay people were. 

Two hundred years ago, and more, the Old World and 
its inhabitants became mutually weary of each other. Men 
voyaged by thousands to the West; some to barter glass 
beads, and such like jewels, for the furs of the Indian hunter; 
some to conquer virgin empires ; and' one stern band to 

pray. But none of these motives had much weight with 
the colonists of Merry Mount. Their leaders we r e men 
who had sported so long with life, that when Thought 
and Wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were led 
astray by the crowd of vanities which they should have put 
to flight. Erring Thought and perverted Wisdom were made 
to put on masques, and play the fool. The men of whom 
we speak, after losing the heart’s fresh gaiety, imagined a 
wild philosophy of pleasure, and came hither to act out their 
latest day-dream. They gathered followers from all that 

giddy tribe, whose, whole life is like the festal days of 

soberer men. In their train were minstrels, not unknown in 
London streets; wandering players, whose theatres had been 
the halls of noblemen ; mummers, rope dancers, and mounte- 
banks, who would long be missed at wakes, church ales, and 
fairs ; in a word, mirth-makers of every sort, such as abounded 
in that age, but now began to be discountenanced by the rapid 
growth of Puritanism. Light had their footsteps been on 

land, and as lightly they came across the sea. Many had 
been maddened by their previous troubles into a gay despair; 
others were as madly gay in the flush of youth, like the 
May Lo^d and his Lady; but whatever might be the quality 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


89 


of their mirth, old and young were gay at Merry Mount. 
The young deemed themselves happy. The elder spirits, if 
they knew that mirth was but the counterfeit of happiness, 
yet followed the false shadow wilfully, because at least her 
garments glittered brightest. Sworn triflers of a lifetime, 
they would not venture among the sober truths 'of life, 
not even to be truly blest. 

All the hereditary pastimes of old England were trans- 
planted hither. The King of Christmas was duly crowned, 
and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway. On the eve of 
Saint John, they felled whole acres of the forest to make 
bonfires, and danced by the blaze all night, crowned with 
garlands, and throwing flowers into the flame. At harvest- 
time, though their crop was of the smallest, they made an 
image with the sheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed it 
with autumnal garlands, and bore it home triumphantly. But 
what chiefly characterized the colonists of Merry Mount was 
their veneration for the May-Pole. It has made their true 
history a poet’s tale. Spring decked the hallowed emblem 
with young blossoms and fresh green boughs ; Summer 
brought roses of the deepest blush, and the perfected foliage 
of the forest. Autumn enriched it with that red and yellow 
gorgeousness, which converts each wildwood leaf into a 
painted flower ; and Winter silvered it with sleet, and hung 
it round with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, 
itself a frozen sunbeam. Thus each alternate season did hom- 
age to the May-Pole, and paid it a tribute of its own 
richest splendor. Its votaries danced round it once, at least, 
in every month; sometimes they called it their religion, or 
their altar; but always, it was the banner staff of Merry 
Mount. 

Unfortunately, there were men in the New World of a 


90 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sterner faith than these May-Pole worshippers. Not far from 
Merry Mount was a settlement of Puritans, most dismal 
wretches, who said their prayers before daylight, and then 
wrought in the forest or the cornfield till evening made it 
prayer-time again. Their weapons ^rere always at hand, to 
shoot down the straggling savage. When they met in con- 
clave, it was never to keep up the old English mirth, 
but to hear sermons three hours long, or to proclaim boun- 
ties on the heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians. 
Their festivals were fast-days, and their chief pastime the 
singing of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden who did but 
dream of a dance ! The selectman nodded to the constable ; 
and there sat the light-heeled reprobate in the stocks ; or 
if he danced, it. was round the whipping-post, which might 
be termed the Puritan M-ay-Pole. 

A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the diffi- 
cult woods, each with a horse-load of iron armor to bur- 
then his footsteps, would sometimes draw near the sunny 
precincts of Merry Mount. There were the silken colonists, 
sporting round their May-Pole; perhaps teaching a bear 
to dance, or striving to communicate their mirth to the 
grave 'Indian ; or masquerading in the skins of deer and 
wolves, which they had hunted for that especial purpose. 
Often, the whole colony were playing at blindman’s buff, 
magistrates and all with their eyes bandaged, except a single 
scape-goat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the tinkling 
of the bells at his garments. Once, it is said, they were 
seen following a flower-decked corpse, with merriment and 
festive music, to his grave. But did the dead man laugh? 
In their quietest times, they sang ballads and told tales, for 
the edification of their pious visitors r or perplexed them 
with juggling tricks; or grinned at them through horse- 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


91 


collars; and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made 
game of their own stupidity, and began a yawning match. 
At the very least of these enormities, the men of iron 
shook their heads and frowned so darkly, that the revelers 
looked up, imagining that a momentary cloud had overcast 
the sunshine, which was to be perpetual there. On the 
other hand, the Puritans affirmed, that, when a psalm was 
pealing from their place of worship, the echQ which the 
forest sent them back seemed often like the chorus of a jolly 
catch, closing with a roar of laughter. Who but the fiend, 
and his bond-slaves, the crew of Merry Mount, had thus 
disturbed them? In due time, a feud arose, stern and bitter 
on one side, and as serious on the other as anything could 
be among such light spirits as had sworn allegiance to the 
May-Pole. The future complexion of New England was 

involved in this important quarrel. Should the grizzly saints 
establish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would 
their spirits darken all the clime, and make it a land of 
clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm for ever. 
But should the banner-staff of Merry Mount be fortunate, 
sunshine would break upon the hills, and flowers would 

beautify the forest, and late posterity do homage to the 

May- Pole. 

After these authentic passages from history, we return 
to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the May. Alas! 
we have delayed too long, and must darken our tale too 
suddenly. As we glance again at the May-Pole, a solitary 
sunbeam is fading from the summit, and leaves only a 

faint, golden tinge, blended with the hues of the rainbow 
banner. Even that dim light is now withdrawn, relinquishing 
the whole domain of Merry Mount to the evening gloom, 
which has rushed so instantaneously from the black surround- 


92 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ing woods. But some of these black shadows have rushed 
forth in human shape. 

Yes; with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had 
passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay masquers was 
disordered and broken; the stag lowered his antlers in 
dismay ; the wolf grew weaker than a lamb ; the bells of 
the morrice-dancers tinkled with tremulous affright. The 
Puritans had played a characteristic part in the May-Pole 
mummeries. Their darksome figures were intermixed with 
the wild shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture 
of the moment, when waking thoughts start up amid the 
scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the hostile 
party stood in the centre of the circle, while the rout of 
monsters cowered around him, like evil spirits in the presence 
of a dread magician. No fantastic foolery could look him 
in the face. So stern was the energy of his aspect, that 
the whole man, visage, frame, and soul, seemed wrought 
of iron, gifted with life and thought, yet all of one sub- 
stance with his head-piece and breast-plate. It was the 
Puritan of Puritans ; it was Endicott himself ! 

“ Stand off, priest of Baal ! ” said he, with a grim frown, 
and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice. “ I know 
thee, Blackstone ! * Thou art the man, who couldst not 
abide the rule even of thine own corrupted church, and 
hast come hither to preach iniquity, and to give example 
of it in thy life. But now shall it be seen that the Lord 
hath sanctified this wilderness for his peculiar people. Woe 
unto them that would defile it! And first, for this flower- 
decked abomination, the altar of thy worship ! ” 

* Did Governor Endicott speak less positively, we should suspect a 
mistake here. The Rev. Mr. Blackstone, though an eccentric, is not 
known to have been an immoral man. We rather doubt his identity with 
the priest of Merry Mount. — [Author’s Note.] 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


93 


And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the hal- 
lowed May-Pole. Nor long did it resist his arm. It groaned 
with a dismal sound ; it showered leaves and rosebuds upon 
the remorseless enthusiast ; and finally, with all its green 
boughs, and ribbons, and flowers, symbolic of departed pleas- 
ures, down fell the banner-staff of Merry Mount. As it 
sank, tradition says, the evening sky grew darker, and the 
woods threw forth a more sombre shadow. 

“ There,” cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on his work, 
— “there lies the only May-Pole in New England! The 
thought is strong within me, that, by its fall, is shadowed 
forth the fate of light and idle mirth-makers, amongst us and 
our posterity. Amen! saith John Endicott.” 

“ Amen ! ” echoed his followers. 

But the votaries of the May-Pole gave one groan for their 
idol. At . the sound, the Puritan leader glanced at the crew 
of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth, yet, at this moment, 
strangely expressive of sorrow and dismay. 

“ Valiant captain.” quoth Peter Palfrey, the Ancient of 
the band, “what order shall be taken with the prisoners? ” 

“ I thought not to repent me of cutting down a May- Pole,” 
replied Endicott, “ yet now I could find in my heart to 
plant it again, and give each of these bestial pagans one other 
dance round their idol. It would have served rarefy for 
a whipping-post ! ” 

“ But there are pinetrees enow,” suggested the lieutenant. 

“True, good Ancient,” said the leader. “Wherefore, bind 
the heathen crew, and bestow on them a small matter of 
stripes apiece, as earnest of our future justice. Set some 
of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves, sq soon as 
Providence shall bring us to one of our own well-ordered 
settlements, where such accommodations may be found. Fur- 


94 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ther penalties, such as branding and cropping of ears, shall 
be thought of hereafter.” 

“How many stripes for the priest?” inquired Ancient 
Palfrey. 

“ None as yet,” answered Endicott, bending his iron frown 
upon the culprit. “ It must be for the Great and General 
Court to determine whether stripes and long imprisonment, 
and other grievous penalty, may atone for his transgressions. 
Let him look to himself! For such as violate our civil order, 
it may be permitted us to show mercy. But woe to the 
wretch that troubleth our religion ! ” 

“ And this dancing bear,” resumed the officer. “ Must he 
share the stripes of his fellows?” 

“Shoot him through the head!” said the energetic Puritan. 

I suspect witchcraft in the beast.” 

“ Here be a couple of shining ones,” continued Peter Palfrey, 
pointing his weapon at the Lord and Lady of the May. 
“ They seem to be of high station among these misdoers. 
Methinks their dignity will not be fitted with less than a double 
share of stripes.” 

Endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed the dress 
and aspect of the hapless pair. There they stood, pale, down- 
cast, and apprehensive. Yet there was an air of mutual sup- 
port, and of pure affection, seeking aid and giving it, that 
showed them to be man and wife, with the sanction of a priest 
upon their love. The youth, in the peril of the moment, had 
dropped his gilded staff, .and thrown his arm about the Lady 
of the May, who leaned against his breast, too lightly to 
burden him, but with weight enough to express that their 
destinies were linked together, for good or evil. They looked 
first at each other, and then into the grim captain’s face. 
There they stood, in the first hour of wedlock, while the idle 


THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 


95 


pleasures, of which their companions were the emblems,, had 
given place to the sternest cares of life, personified by the 
dark Puritans. But never had their youthful beauty seemed so 
pure and high, as when its glow was chastened by adversity. 

'‘Youth,” said Endicott, “ye stand in an evil case, thou and 
ffty maiden wife. Make ready presently; for I am minded that 
ye shall both have a token to remember your wedding-day ! ” 

“Stern man,” cried the May Lord, “how can I move thee? 
Were the means at hand, I would resist to the death. Being 
powerless, I entreat ! Do with me as thou wilt, but let Edith 
go untouched ! ” 

“ Not so,” replied the immitigable zealot. “ We are not 
wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, which requireth the 
stricter discipline. What sayest thou, maid? Shall thy silken 
bridegroom suffer thy share of the penalty, besides his own?” 

“ Be it death,” said Edith, “ and lay it all on me ! ” 

Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood in a woful 
case. Their foes were triumphant, their friends captive and 
abased, their home desolate, the benighted wilderness around 
them, and a rigorous destiny, in the shape of the Puritan 
leader, their only guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not 
altogether conceal that the iron man was softened ; he smiled 
at the fair spectacle of early love; he almost sighed for the 
inevitable blight of early hopes. 

“ The troubles of life have come hastily on this young 
couple,” observed Endicott. “ We will see how they comport 
themselves under their present trials, ere we burthen them 
with greater. If, among the spoil, there be any garments of a 
more decent fashion, let them be put upon this May Lord and 
his Lady, instead of their glistening vanities. Look to it, some 
of you.” 

“And shall not the youth’s hair be cut?” asked Peter Pal- 


96 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


frey, looking with abhorrence at the love-lock and long glossy 
curls of the young man. 

“ Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-shell 
fashion,” answered the captain. “ Then bring them along with 
us, but more gently than their fellows. There be qualities in 
the youth, which may make him valiant to fight, and sober to 
toil, and pious to pray ; and in the maiden, that may fit her to 
become a mother in our Israel, bringing up babes in better 
nurture than her own hath been. Nor think ye, young ones, 
that they are the happiest, even in our lifetime of a moment, 
who misspend it in dancing round a May-Pole! ” 

And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid the rock- 
foundation of New England, lifted the wreath of roses from 
the ruin of the May-Pole, and threw it, with his own gaunt- 
leted hand, over the heads of the Lord and Lady of the May. 
It was a deed of prophecy. As the moral gloom of the world 
overpowers all systematic gaiety, even so was their home of 
wild mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. They returned 
to it no more. But, as their flowery garland was wreathed 
of the brightest roses that had grown there, so, in the tie that 
united them, were intertwined all the purest and best of their 
•early joys. They went heavenward, supporting each other 
along the difficult path which it was their lot to tread, and 
never wasted one regretful thought on the vanities of Merry 
Mount. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


[To appreciate the significance of “The Gentle Boy,” the 
reader must remember that the Puritans did not exile them- 
selves from England in behalf of religious liberty as we under- 
stand the term. Their purpose in migrating to New England 
was to establish a theocratic state, free at once of the Stuart 
tyranny and the curse of heretics. Citizenship in early New 
England was co-extensive with church membership. The 
Puritans did not tolerate men who disagreed with them in 
their interpretation of the Bible. The aggressive Quakers 
were perhaps the chief sufferers from Puritanic bigotry. On 
October 27th, 1659, three of their number, Mary Dyer, Wil- 
liam Robinson, and Marmaduke Stevenson, were executed on 
Boston Common. See Introduction, pp. 4 and 7. (See John 
Fiske’s Beginnings of New England, p. 188.)] 

In the course of the year 1656, several of the people calfed 
Quakers, led, as they professed, by the inward movement of 
the spirit, made their appearance in New England. Their 
reputation, as holders of mystic and pernicious principles, hav- 
ing spread before them, the Puritans early endeavored to ban- 
ish, and to prevent the further intrusion of the rising sect* 
But the measures by which it was intended to purge the land 
of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous, were entirely 
unsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming persecution as a divine 
call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage,, 
unknown to the Puritans themselves, who had shunned the 
cross, by providing for the peaceable exercise of their relig- 
ion in a distant wilderness. Though it was the singular 
fact, thaj every nation of the earth rejected the wandering 
enthusiasts who practised peace towards all men, the place of 
greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore, in their eyes, the 
most eligible, was the province of Massachusetts Bay. 

97 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


v8 

The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally distributed by 
our pious forefathers, the popular antipathy, so strong that it 
endured for nearly a hundred years after actual persecution 
had ceased, were attractions as powerful for the Quakers as 
peace, honor, and reward would have been for the worldly- 
minded. Every European vessel brought new cargoes of the 
sect, eager to testify against the oppression which they hoped 
to share; and, when ship-masters were restrained by heavy 
fines from affording them passage, they made long and cir- 
cuitous journeys through ’the Indian country, and appeared in 
the province as if conveyed by a supernatural power. Their 
enthusiasm, heightened almost to madness by the treatment 
which they received, produced actions contrary to the rules of 
decency, as well as of rational religion, and presented a sin- 
gular contrast to the calm and staid deportment of their sec- 
tarian successors of the present day. The command of the 
spirit, inaudible except to the soul, and not to be controverted 
on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most 
indecorous exhibitions, which, abstractedly considered, well 
deserved the moderate chastisement of the rod. These ex- 
travagances, and the persecution which was at once their cause 
and consequence, continued to increase, till, in the year 1659, 
the government of Massachusetts Bay indulged two members 
of the Quaker sect with the crown of martyrdom. 

An indelible stain of bloo 4 is upon the hands of all who 
consented to this act, but a large share of the awful responsi- 
bility must rest upon the person then at the head of the gov- 
ernment.* He was a man of narrow mind and imperfect edu- 
cation, and his uncompromising bigotry was made hot and mis- 
chievous by violent and hasty passions : he exerted his in- 

* “ One might almost say that it was not the peo le of Massachusetts, 
after all, that shed the blood of the Quakers; it was Endicott and the 
clergy.” John l'iske, Beginnings of New England, p. 214. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


99 


fluence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the death 
of the enthusiasts ; and his whole conduct, in respect to them, 
was marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose re- 
vengeful feelings were not less deep because they were in- 
active, remembered this man and his associates, in after 
times. The historian of the sect affirms that, by the wrath 
of Heaven, a blight fell upon the land in the vicinity of the 
“ bloody town ” of Boston, so that no wheat would grow 
there ; and he takes his stand, as it were, among the graves 
of the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the 
judgments that overtook them, in old age or at the parting 
hour. He tells us that they died suddenly, and violently, 
and in madness; but nothing can exceed the bitter mockery 
with which he records the loathsome disease, and “ death by 
rottenness,” of the fierce and cruel governor. 

* * * * * * 

On the evening of the autumn day, that had witnessed' 
the martyrdom of two men of the Quaker persuasion, a 
Puritan settler was returning from the metropolis to the 
neighboring country town in which he resided. The air 
was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering twilight was 

made brighter by the rays of a young moon, which had 

now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. The traveller, 
a man of middle age, wrapped in a gray frieze cloak, quick- 
ened his pace when he had reached the outskirts of the 
town, for a gloomy extent of nearly four miles lay between 
him and his home. The low, straw-thatched houses were 
scattered at considerable intervals along the road, and the 
country having been settled but about thirty years, the tracts 
of original forest still bore no small proportion to the cul- 
tivated ground. The autumn wind wandered among the 

branches, whirling away the leaves from all except the pine 


100 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


trees, and moaning as if it lamented the desolation of which 
it was the instrument. The road had penetrated the mass 
-of woods that lay nearest to the town, and was just emerg- 
ing into an open space, when the traveller’s ears were saluted 
by a sound more mournful than even that of the wind. It 
was like the wailing of some one in distress, and it seemed 
to proceed from beneath a tall and lonely fir tree, in the 
centre of a cleared, but unenclosed and uncultivated field. 
The Puritan could not but remember that this was the very 
spot which had been made accursed a few hours before by 
the execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had been thrown 
together, into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they 
suffered. He struggled, however, against the superstitious 
fears which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to 
pause and listen. 

“ The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to 
tremble if it be otherwise,” thought he, straining his eyes 
through the dim. moonlight. “Methinks it is like the wad- 
ing of a child ; some infant, it may be, which has strayed 
from its mother, and chanced upon this place of death. For 
the ease of mine own conscience, I must search this matter 
out.” 

He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fear- 
fully across the field. Though now so desolate/ its soil was 
pressed down and trampled by the thousand footsteps of 
those who had witnessed the spectacle of that day, all of 
whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their loneliness. 
The traveller at length reached the fir tree, which from the 
middle upward was covered with living branches, although 
a scaffold had been erected beneath, and other preparations 
made for the work of death. Under this unhappy tree, 
which in after times was believed to drop poison with its 


THE GENTLE BOY 


101 


dew, sat the one solitary mourner for innocent blood. It 
was a slender and light-clad little boy, who leaned his face 
upon a hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth, and 
wailed bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might 
receive the punishment of crime. The Purita'n, whose ap- 
proach had been unperceived, laid his hand upon the child’s 
shoulder, and addressed him compassionately. 

“ You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no 
wonder that you weep,” said he. “ But dry your eyes and 
tell me where your mother dwells. I promise you if the 
journey be not too far, I will leave you in her arms to- 
night.” 

The boy had hushed his wailing at once, and turned his 
face upward to the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed 
countenance, certainly not more than six years old, but 
sorrow, fear, and want, had destroyed much of its infantile 
expression. The Puritan, seeing the boy’s frightened gaze, 
and feeling that he trembled under his hand, endeavored 
to reassure him. 

“ Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the read- 
iest way were to leave you here. What ! you do not fear to 
sit beneath the gallows on a new-made grave, and yet you 
tremble at a friend’s touch. Take heart, child, and tell me 
.what is your name, and where is your home ? ” 

“ Friend,” replied the little boy, in a sweet, though faltering 
voice, “ they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.” 

The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle 
with the moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and the outland- 
ish name almost made the Puritan believe that the boy was in 
truth a being which had sprung up out of the grave on 
which he sat. But perceiving that the apparition stood the 
test of a short mental prayer, and remembering that the arm 


102 


TWICE-TOLD I'ALEb' 


which he had touched was life-like, he adopted a more rational 
supposition. “The poor child is stricken 'm his intellect,” 
thought he, “ but verily, his words are fearful, in a place like 
this.” He then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the 
boy’s fantasy. 

“ Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this 
cold autumn night, and I fear that you are ill-provided with 
food. I am hastening to a warm supper and ' bed, and if 
you will go with me, you shall share them ! ” 

“ I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry, and shiver- 
ing with cold, thcu wilt not give me food nor lodging,” re- 
plied the boy in a quiet tone which despair had taught him, 
even so young. “ My father was of the people whom all 
men hate. They have laid him under this heap of earth, and 
here is my home.” 

The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim’s hand, 
relinquished it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. 
But he possessed a compassionate heart, which not even re- 
ligious prejudice could harden into stone. 

“ God forbid that I should leave this child to perish, 
though he comes of the accursed sect,” sa^d he to himself. 
“Do we not all spring from an evil root? Are we not all 
in darkness till the light doth shine upon us'? He shall not 
perish, neither in body, nor, if prayer and instruction may 
avail for him, in soul.” He then spoke aloud and kindly to 
Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the 
grave. “ Was every door in the land shut against you, 
my child, that you have wandered to this unhallowed spot ? ” 

“ They drove me forth from the prison when they took my 
father thence,” said the boy, “ and I stood afar off, watching 
the crowd of people ; and when they were gone, I came 


THE GENTLE BOY 


103 


hither, and found only this grave. I knew that my father 
was sleeping here, and I said, This shall be my home.” 

“No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my head, 
or a morsel to share with you ! ” exclaimed the Puritan, 
whose sympathies were now fully excited. “ Rise up and 
come with me, and fear not any harm.” 

The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth, 
as if the cold hearty beneath it were warmer to him than any 
in a living breast. The traveller, however, continued to 
entreat him tenderly, and seeming to acquire some degree v 
of confidence, he at length arose. But his slender limbs tot- 
tered with weakness, his little head grew dizzy, and he 
leaned against the tree of death for support. 

“ My poor boy, are you so feeble ? ” said the Puritan. 

“ When did you taste food last ? ” 

“ I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison,” 
replied Ilbrahim, “ but they brought him none neither yes- 
terday nor to-day, saying that he had eaten enough to bear 
him to his journey’s end. Trouble not thyself for my hun- 
ger, kind friend, for I have lacked food many times ere now/' 
The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his 
cloak about him, while his heart stirred with shame and 
anger against the gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in 
this persecution. In the awakened warmth of his feelings, 
he resolved that, at whatever risk, he would not forsake the 
poor little defenceless being whom Heaven had confided to 
his care. With this determination, he left the accursed 
field, and resumed the homeward path from which the waib 
ing of the boy had called him. The light and motionless 
burthen scarcely impeded his progress, and he soon beheld 
the fire-rays from the windows of the cottage which he, a 
native of a distant clime, had built in the Western wilder- 


104 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of culti- 
vated ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of 
a wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for 
protection. 

“ Look up, child,” said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose 
faint head had sunk upon his shoulder, “ there is our home.” 

At the word “home,” a thrill passed through the child’s 
frame, but he continued silent. A few moments brought 
them to the cottage-door, at which the owner knocked ; for 
at that early period, when savages were wandering every- 
where among the settlers, bolt and bar were indispensable to 
the security of a dwelling. The summons was answered 
by a bond-servant,* a coarse-clad and dull-featured piece of 
humanity, who, after ascertaining that his master was the 
applicant, undid the door, and held a flaring pine-knot torch 
to light him in. Farther back in the passage-way, the red 
blaze discovered a matronly woman, but no little crowd of 
children came bounding forth to greet their father’s return. 
As the Puritan entered, he thrust aside his cloak and dis- 
played Ilbrahim’s face to the female. 

“ Dorothy, hqre is a little outcast, whom Providence hath 
put into our hands,” observed he. “ Be kind to him, even 
as if he were one of those dear ones who have departed 
Tom us.” 

“ What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias ? ” 
she inquired. “ Is he one whom the wilderness folk have 
ravished from some Christian mother ? ” 


* “ At the beginning of colonization bound or indentured white serv- 
ants were sent in large numbers to the new land. Some of the terms of 
service were very long, even ten years. Thesa indentured servants were 
in three classes: “ Freewillers,” or “ redemptioners,” or voluntary emi- 
grants; “ kids,” who had been seduced through ignorance or duplicity 
on board ship that carried them off to America; and convicts transported 
for crime.” Alice Morse Earle, Customs and Fashions in Old New 
England. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


106 - 


“ No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from the 
wilderness,” he replied. “ The heathen savage would have 
given him to eat of his scanty morsel, and to drink of his. 
birchen cup ; but Christian men, alas ! had cast him out to- 
die.” 

Then he told her how he had found him beneath the gal- 
lows, upon his father’s grave; and how his heart had 
prompted him, like the speaking of an inward voice, to> 
take the little outcast home, and be kind unto him. He ac- 
knowledged his resolution to feed and clothe him, as if he 
were his own child, and to afford him the instruction which 
should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into 
his infant mind. Dorothy was gifted with even a quickei 
tenderness than her husband, and she approved of all his 
doings and intentions. 

“ Have you a mother, dear child ? ” she inquired. 

The tears burst forth from his full heart, as he attempted 
to reply ; but. Dorothy at length understood that he had a 
mother, who, like the rest of her sect, was a persecuted wan- 
derer. She had been taken from the prison a short time 
before, carried into the uninhabited wilderness, and left to 
perish there by hunger or wild beasts. This was no uncom- 
mon method of disposing of the Quakers, and they were 
accustomed to boast that the inhabitants of the desert were 
more hospitable to them than civilized man. 

“ Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, and a 
kind one,” said Dorothy, when she had gathered this infor- 
mation. “ Dry your tears, Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I 
will be your mother.” 

The good woman prepared the little bed, from which her 
own children had successively been borne to another rest- 
ing place. Before Ilbrahim would consent to occupy it, he 


106 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


knelt down, and as Dorothy listened to his simple and 
affecting prayer, she marvelled how the parents that had 
taught it to him could have been judged • worthy of death. 
When the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his pale and 
spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow, 
drew the bed-clothes up about his neck, and went away with 
a pensive gladness in her heart. 

Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants 
from the old country. He had remained in England during 
the first years of the civil war, in which he had borne some 
share as a cornet of dragoons, under Cromwell. But when 
the ambitious designs of his leader began to develop them- 
selves, he quitted the army of the Parliament, and sought 
a refuge from the strife, which was no longer holy, among 
the people of his persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts. 
A more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence In 
drawing him thither ; for New England offered advantages 
to men of unprosperous fortunes, as well as to dissatisfied 
religionists, and Pearson had hitherto found it difficult to 
provide for a wife and increasing family. To this supposed 
impurity of motive, the more bigoted Puritans were inclined 
to impute the removal by death of all the children, for 
whose earthly good the father had been over-thoughtful. 
They had left their native country blooming like roses, and 
like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those ex- 
pounders of the ways of Providence, who had thus judged 
their brother, and attributed his domestic sorrow to his sin, 
were not more charitable when they saw him and Dorothy 
endeavoring to fill up the void in their hearts by the adoption 
of an infant of the accursed sect. Nor did they fail to com- 
municate their disapprobation to Tobias; but the latter, in 
reply, merely pointed at the little, quiet, lovely boy, whose 


THE GENTLE BOY 


107 


appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful argu- 
ments as could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. 
Even his beauty, however, and his winning manners, some- 
times produced an effect ultimately unfavorable ; for the 
bigots, when the outer surfaces of their iron hearts had been 
softened and again grew hard, affirmed that no merely nat- 
ural cause could have so worked upon them. 

Their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by 
the ill success of divers theological discussions, in which it 
was attempted to convince him of the errors of his sect. 
Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a skilful controversialist ; but 
the feeling of his religion was strong as instinct in him, and 
he could neither be enticed nor driven from the faith which 
his father had died for. The odium of this stubbornness 
was shared in a great measure by the child’s protectors, in- 
somuch that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to ex- 
perience a most bitter species of persecution, in the cold 
regards of many a friend whom they had valued. The com- 
mon people manifested their opinions more openly. Pearson 
was a man of some consideration, being a representative to 
the General Court, and an approved lieutenant in the train- 
bands ; yet within a week after his adoption of Ilbrahim, 
he had been both hissed and hooted. Once, also, when walk- 
ing through a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice 
from some invisible speaker ; and it cried, “ What shall be 
done to the backslider? Lo ! the scourge is knotted for him, 
even the whip of nine cords, and every cord three knots ! ” 
These insults irritated Pearson’s temper for the moment ; 
they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible 
but powerful workers towards an end which his most secret 
thought had not yet whispered. 


108 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a member 
of their family, Pearson and his wife deemed it proper that 
he should appear with them at public worship. They had 
anticipated some opposition to this measure from the boy, 
but he prepared himself in silence, and at the appointed 
Lour was clad in the new mourning suit which Dorothy had 
wrought for him. As the parish was then, and during many 
subsequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the 
•commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum. 
At the first sound of that martial call to the place of holy 
and quiet thoughts, Tobias and Dorothy set forth, each 
holding a hand of little Ilbrahim, like two parents linked to- 
gether by the infant of their love. On their path through the 
leafless woods, they were overtaken by many persons of 
their acquaintance, all of whom avoided them, and passed 
hy on the other side ; but a severer trial awaited their con- 
stancy when they had descended the hill, and drew near the 
pine-built and undecorated house of prayer. Around the 
•door, from which the drummer still sent forth his thunder- 
ing summons, was drawn up a formidable phalanx, includ- 
ing several of the oldest members of the congregation, many 
of the middle-aged, and nearly all the younger males. 
Pearson found it difficult to sustain their united and dis- 
approving gaze; but Dorothy, whose mind was differently 
circumstanced, merely drew the boy closer to her, and fal- 
tered not in her approach. As they entered the door, they 
overheard the muttered sentiments of the assemblage, and 
when the reviling voices of the little children smote Ilbra- 
him’s ear, he wept. 

The interior aspect of the meetinghouse was rude. The 
low ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked woodwork, 
and the undraperied pulpit offered nothing to excite the 


THE GENTLE BOY 


109 


devotion, which, without such external aids, often remains 
latent in the heart. The floor of the building was occupied 
by rows of long, cushionless benches, supplying the place 
of pews, and the broad aisle formed a sexual division, im- 
passable except by children beneath a certain age. 

Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the meet- 
inghouse, and Ilbrahim, being within the years of infancy, 
was retained under the care of the latter. The wrinkled 
beldams involved theniselves in their rusty cloaks as he 
passed by ; even the mild-featured maidens seemed to 
dread contamination ; and many a stern old man arose, and 
turned his repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the 
gentle boy, as if the sanctuary were polluted by his presence. 
He was a sweet infant of the skies, that had strayed away 
from his home, and all the inhabitants of this miserable 
worl4 closed up their impure hearts against him, drew 
back their earth-soiled garments from his touch, and said, 
“ We are holier than thou.” 

Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, and 
retaining fast hold of her hand, assumed a grave and de- 
corous demeanor, such as might befit a person of matured 
taste and understanding, who should find himself in a 
temple dedicated to some worship which he did not recog- 
nize, but felt himself bound to respect. The exercises had 
not yet commenced, however, when the boy’s attention was 
arrested by an event, apparently of trifling interest. A 
woman, having her face muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn 
completely about her form, advanced slowly up the broad- 
aisle, and took a place upon the foremost bench. Ilbrahim’s 
faint color varied, his nerves fluttered, he was unable to 
^urn his eyes from the muffled female. 

When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the 


110 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


minister arose, and having turned the hour-glass which 
stood by the great Bible, commenced his discourse. He was 
now well stricken in years, a man of pale, thin countenance, 
and his gray hairs were closely covered by a black velvet 
skullcap. In his younger days he had practically learned 
the meaning of persecution from Archbishop Laud, and he 
was not now disposed to forget the lesson against which he 
had murmured' then. Introducing the often discussed sub- 
ject of the Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and a 
description of their tenets, in which error predominated, and 
prejudice distorted the aspect of what was true. He ad- 
verted to the recent measures in the province, and cautioned 
his hearers of weaker parts against calling in question the 
just severity, which God-fearing magistrates had at length 
been compelled to exercise. He spoke of the danger of pity, 
in some cases a commendable and Christian virtue, but inap- 
plicable to this pernicious sect. He observed that such was 
their devilish obstinacy in error, that even the little children, 
the suckling babes, were hardened and desperate heretics. He 
affirmed that no man, without Heaven’s especial warrant, 
should attempt their conversion, lest while he lent his hand 
to draw them from the slough, he should himself be pre- 
cipitated into its lowest depths. 

The sands of the second hour were principally in the lower 
half of the glass, when the sermon concluded. An approv- 
ing murmur followed, and the clergyman, having given out 
a hymn, took his seat with much self-congratulation, and 
endeavored to read the effect of his eloquence in the visages 
of the people. But while voices from all parts of the house 
were tuning themselves to sing, a scene occurred, which, 
though not very unusual at that period in the province, hap- 
pened to be without precedent in this parish. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


111 


The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in 
the front rank of the audience, now arose, and with slow, 
i stately, and unwavering step, ascended the pulpit stairs. 

The quaverings of incipient harmony were hushed, and the 
< divine sat in speechless and almost terrified astonishment, 
while she undid the door, and stood up in the sacred desk 
• from which his maledictions had just been thundered. She 
then divested herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared 
' in a most singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was 
girded about her waist with a knotted cord; her raven hair 
fell down upon her shoulders, and its blackness was defiled 
by pale streaks of ashes, which she had strewn upon her 
head. Her eyebrows, dark- and strongly defined, added to 
the deathly whiteness of a countenance, which, emaciated 
with want, and wild with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, 
retained no trace of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing 
earnestly on the audience, and there was no sound, nor any 
movement, except a faint shuddering which every man ob- 
' served in his neighbor, but was scarcely conscious of in 
himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration came, she 
; spoke, for the first few moments, in a low voice, and not 
invariably distinct utterance. Her discourse gave evidence 
of an imagination hopelessly entangled with her reason ; it 
was a vague and incomprehensible rhapsody, which, how- 
ever, seemed to spread its oWn atmosphere rdund the hearer’s 
soul, and to move his feelings by some influence unconnected 
with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful but shadowy 
images would sometimes be seen, like bright things moving 
in a turbid river; or a strong and singularly shaped idea 
leapt forth, and seized at once on the understanding or the 
heart. But the course of her unearthly eloquence soon led 
her to the persecutions of her sect, and from thence the step 


112 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


-was short to her own peculiar sorrows. She was naturally 
a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge now 
wrapped themselves in the garb of piety; the character of her 
speech was changed, her images became distinct though wild, 
and her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness. 

“ The governor and his mighty men,” she said, “ have gath- 
ered together, taking counsel among themselves and saying, 
“ What shall we do unto this people, — even unto the people 
who have come into this land to put our iniquity to the 
blush ? ” And lo, the Devil entereth into the council-cham- 
ber, like a lame man of low stature and gravely appareled, 
with a dark and twisted countenance, and a bright, downcast 
eye. And he standeth up among the rulers ; yea, he goeth to 
and fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, 
for his word is, “ Slay ! “slay ! ” But I say unto ye, Woe 
tc them that slay ! Woe to them that shed the blood of 
sain. ' Woe to them that have slain the husband, and cast 
forth the. child, the tender infant, to wander homeless, and 
hungry, and cold, till he die; and hlave saved the mother alive, 
in the cruelty of their tender mercies! Woe to them in their 
lifetime, cursed are they in the delight and pleasure of their 
hearts! Woe to them in their death-hour, whether it come 
swiftly with blood and violence, or after long and lingering 
pain ! Woe, in the dark house, in the rottenness of the grave, 
when the children’s children shall revile the ashes of the 
fathers! Woe, woe, woe, at the judgment, when all the per- 
secuted and all the slain in this bloody land, and the father, 
the mother, and the child shall await them in a day that they 
cannot escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose 
hearts are moving with a power that ye know not, arise, 
wash your hands of this innocent blood! Lift your voices. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


113 


chosen ones, cry aloud, and call down a woe and a judg 
ment with me ! ” 

Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which 
she mistook for inspiration, the speaker was silent. Her 
voice was succeeded by the hysteric shrieks of several women, 
but the feelings of the audience generally had not been drawn 
onward in the current with her own. They remained stupe- 
fied, stranded as it were, in the midst of a torrent, which 
deafened them by its roaring, but might not move them by 
its violence. The clergyman, who could not hitherto have 
ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily 
force, now addressed her in the tone of just indignation and 
legitimate authority. 

“ Get you down, woman, from the holy place which you 
profane,” he said. “ Is it to the Lord’s house that you come 
to pour forth the foulness of your heart, and the inspiration 
of the Devil ? Get you down, and remember that the sen- 
tence of death is on you, yea, and shall be executed, were it 
but for this day’s work ? ” 

“ I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance,” 
replied she, in a depressed and even mild tone. “ I have done 
my mission unto thee and to thy people. Reward me with 
stripes, imprisonment, or death, as ye shall be permitted.” 

The weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps to 
totter as she descended the pulpit stairs. The people, in the 
meanwhile, were stirring to and fro on the floor of the house, 
whispering among themselves, and glancing towards the in- 
truder. Many of them now recognised her as the woman 
who had assaulted the Governor with frightful language, as 
he passed by the window of her prison; they knew, also, that 
she was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved 
only by an involuntary banishment into the wilderness. The 


114 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


new outrage, by whicll she had provoked her fate, seemed to 
render further lenity impossible; and a gentleman in military 
dress, with a stout man of -inferior rank, drew towards the 
door of the meeting-house, and awaited her approach. 
Scarcely did her feet press the floor, however, when an unex- 
pected scene occurred. In that moment of her peril, when 
every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy pressed forth, 
and threw his arms round his mother. 

“ I am here, mother, it is I, and I will go with thee to 
prison,” he exclaimed. 

She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened 
expression, for she knew that the boy had been cast out to 
perish, and she had not hoped to see his face again. She 
feared, perhaps, that it was but one of the happy visions, 
with which her excited fancy had often deceived her, in the 
solitude of the desert or in prison. But when she felt his hand 
warm within her own, and heard his little eloquence of child- 
ish love, she began to know that she was yet a mother. 

“ Blessed art thou, my son,” she sobbed. “ My heart was 
withered; yea, dead with thee and with thy father; and now 
it leaps as in the first moment when I pressed thee to my 
bosom.” 

She knelt down and embraced him again and again, while 
the joy that could find no words expressed itself in broken 
accents, like the bubbles gushing up to vanish at the surface 
of a deep fountain. The sorrows of past years, and the 
darker peril that was nigh, cast not a shadow on the bright- 
ness of that fleeting moment. Soon, however, the spectators 
saw a change upon her face, as the consciousness of her sad 
estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which 
joy had opened. B? the words she uttered, it would seem 
that the indulgence of natural love had given her mind ? 


THE GENTLE BOY 


115 


momentary sense of its errors, and made her know how far 
she had strayed from duty, in following the dictates of a 
wild fanaticism. 

“ In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy/' 
she said, “ for thy mother’s path has gone darkening on- 
ward, till now the end is death. Son, son, I have borne thee 
in my arms when my limbs were tottering, and I have fed 
thee with the food that I was fainting for ; yet I have ill per- 
formed a mother’s part by thee in life, and now I leave thee 
no inheritance but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking 
through the world, and find all hearts closed against thee, 
and their sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. 
My child, my child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle 
spirit, and I the cause of all ! ” 

She hid her face on Ilbrahim’s head, and her long raven 
hair, discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell down 
about him like a veil. A low and interrupted moan was the 
voice of her heart’s anguish, and it did not fail to move the 
sympathies of many who mistook their involuntary virtue 
for a sin. Sobs were audible in the female section of the 
house, and every man who was a father drew his hand 
across his eyes. Tobias Pearson was agitated and uneasy, 
but a certain feeling like the consciousness of guilt op- 
pressed him, so that he could not go forth and offer himself 
as the protector of the child. Dorothy, however, had watched 
her husband’s eye. Her mind was free from the influence that 
had begun to work on his, and she drew near the Quaker 
woman, and addressed her in the hearing of all the congrega- 
ion. 

“ Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his mother,” 
she said, taking Ilbrahim’s hand. “ Providence has signally 
marked out my husband to protect him, and he has fed at 


116 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


our table, and lodged under our roof, now many days, till 
our hearts have grown very strongly unto him. Leave the 
tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his welfare.” 

The Quaker rose from the' ground, but drew the boy 
closer to her, while she gazed earnestly in Dorothy’s face. 
Her mild, but saddened features, and neat matronly attire 
harmonized together, and were like a verse of fireside poetry. 
Her very aspect proved that she was blameless, so far as 
mortal could be so, in respect to God and man ; while the 
enthusiast, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of knotted 
cord, had as evidently violated the duties of the present life 
and the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. 
The two females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, 
formed a practical allegory ; it was rational piety and un- 
bridled fanaticism contending for the empire of a young 
heart. 

“ Thou art not of our people,” said the Quaker, mourn- 
fully. 

“ No, we are not of your people,” replied Dorothy, with 
mildness, “ but we are Christians, looking upward to the same 
Heaven with you. Doubt not that your boy shall meet you 
there, if there be a blessing on our tender and prayerful guid- 
ance of him. Thither, I trust, . my own children have gone 
before me, for I also have been a mother ; I am no longer 
so,” she added, in a faltering tone, “and your son will have 
all my care.” 

“ But will ye lead him in the path which his parents have 
trodden ? ” demanded the Quaker. ‘\Can ye teach him the 
enlightened faith which his father has died for, and for 
which I, even I, am soon to become an unworthy martyr ? 
The boy has been baptized in blood; will ye keep the mark 
fresh and ruddy upon his forehead ? ” 


THE GENTLE BOY 


117 


“ I will not deceive you,” answered Dorothy. “ If your 
child become our child, we must breed him up in the instruction 
which Heaven has imparted to us ; we must pray for him the 
prayers of our own faith ; we must do towards him accord- 
ing to the dictates of our own consciences, and not of your’s. 
Were we to act otherwise, we should abuse your trust, even 
in complying with your wishes.” 

The mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled 
countenance, and then turned her eyes upward to Heaven. 
She seemed to pray internally, and the contention of her soul 
was evident. 

\ 

“ Friend,” she said at length to Dofothy, “ I doubt not 
that my son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. 
Nay, I will believe that even thy imperfect lights may 
guide him to a better world; for surely thou art on the path 
thither. But thou hast spoken of a husband. Doth he stand 
here among this multitude of people? Let him come forth, 
for I must know to whom I commit this most precious trust.” 

She turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a 
momentary delay, Tobias Pearson came forth from among 
them. The Quaker saw the dress which marked his military 
rank, and shook her head ; but then she noted the hesitating 
air, the eyes that struggled with her own, and were van- 
quished ; the color that went and came, and could find no 
resting-place. As she gazed, an unmirthful smile spread over 
her features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some 
desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she 
spake. 

“ I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within me and 
saith, * Leave thy child, Catharine, for, his place is here, and 
go hence, for I have other work for thee. Break the bonds 
of natural affection, martyr thy love, and know that in all 


118 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


thes. kings eternal wisdom has its ends.’ I go, friends, 
I go. Take ye my boy, my precious jewel. I go hence, trust- 
ing that all shall be well, and that even for his infant hands 
there is a labor in the vineyard.” 

She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at first 
struggled and clung to his mother, with sobs and tears, but 
remained passive when she had kissed his cheek and arisen 
from the ground. Having held her hands over his head in 
mental prayer, she was ready to depart. 

“ Farewell, friends, in mine extremity,” she said to Pear- 
son and his wife; “the good deed ye have done me is a 
treasure laid up in Heaven, to be returned a thousand fold 
hereafter. And farewell ye, mine enemies, to whom it is not 
permitted to harm so much as a hair, of my head, nor to stay 
my footsteps even for a moment. The day is coming when 
ye shall call upon me to witness for ye to this one sin un- 
committed, and I will rise up and answer.” 

She turned her steps toward the door, and the men, who 
had stationed themselves to guard it, withdrew, and suffered 
her to pass. A general sentiment of pity overcame the viru- 
lence of religious hatred. Sanctified by her love and her 
affliction, she went forth, and all the people gazed after her 
till she had journeyed up the hill, and was lost behind its 
brow. She went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to 
renew the wanderings of past years. For her voice had been 
already heard in many lands of Christendom ; and she had 
pined in the cells of a Catholic Inquisition before she felt 
the lash, and lay in the dungeons of the Puritans. Her mis- 
sion had extended also to the followers of the Prophet, and 
from them she had received the courtesy and kindness which 
all the contending sects of our purer religion united to deny 
her. Her husband and herself had resided many months lii 


THE GENTLE BOY 


119 


Turkey, where even the Sultan’s countenance was gracious 
to them ; in that pagan land, too, was Ilbrahim’s birthplace, 
and his Oriental name was a mark of gratitude for the good 
deeds of an unbeliever. 

****** 

J . ' 

When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the 
rights over Ilbrahim th L could be delegated, their affection 
for him became, like the memory of their native land, or 
their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of the immovable 
furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after a week or two 
of mental disquiet, began to gratify his protectors, by many 
inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents, and 
their house as home. Before the winter snows were melted, 
the persecuted infant, the little wanderer from a remote and 
heathen country, seemed native in the New England cottage, 
and inseparable from the warmth and security of its hearth. 
Under the influence of kind treatment, and in the conscious- 
ness that he was loved, Ilbrahim’s demeanor lost a premature 
manliness which had resulted from his earlier situation; he 
became more childlike, and his natural character displayed 
itself with freedom. It was in many respects a beautiful one, 
yet the disordered imaginations of both his father and mother 
had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in the mind 
of the boy. In his general state, Ilbrahim would derive en- 
joyment from the most trifling events, and from every object 
about him ; he seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, 
by a faculty analogous to that of the witch hazel, which points 
to hidden gold where all is barren to the eye. His airy 
gaiety, coming to him from a thousand sources, communicated 
itself to the family, and Ilbrahim was like a domesticated sun- 
beam, brightening moody countenances, and chasing away the 
gloom from the dark corners of the cottage. 


120 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also 
that of pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy’s prevail- 
ing temper sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. 
His sorrows could not always be followed up to their orig- 
inal source, but most frequently they appeared x to flow, though 
Ilbrahim was young to be sad for sue 1 a cause, from wounded 
love. The flightiness of his mirth endered him often guilty 
of offences against the decorum of a Puritan household, and 
on these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke. But 
the slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible 
in distinguishing from pretended anger, seemed to sink into 
his heart and poison all his enjoyments, till he became 
sensible that he was entirely forgiven. Of the malice, which 
generally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness, Ilbrahim 
was altogether destitute ; when trodden upon, he would not 
turn; when wounded, he could but die. His mind was want- 
ing in the stamina for self-support ; it was a plant that would 
twine beautifully round something stronger than itself ; but 
if repulsed, or torn away, it had no choice but to wither on 
the ground. Dorothy’s acuteness taught her that severity 
would crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him 
with the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. Her 
husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew daily 
less productive of familiar caresses. 

The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to the 
Quaker infant and his protectors, had not undergone a favor- 
able change, in spite of the momentary triumph which the 
desolate mother had obtained over their sympathies. The 
scorn and bitterness, of which he was the object, were very 
grievous to Ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance made 
him sensible that the children, his equals in age, partook of 
the enmity of their parents. His tender and social nature had 


THE GENTLE BOY 


121 


already overflowed in attachments to everything about him, 
and still there was a residue of unappropriated love, which 
he yearned to bestow upon the little ones who were taught 
to hate him. As the warm days of spring came on, Ilbrahim 
was accustomed to remain for hours, silent and inactive, 
within hearing of the children’s voices at their play ; yet, with 
his usual delicacy of feeling, he avoided their notice, and 
would flee and hide himself from the smallest individual 
among them. Chance, however, seemed at length to open a 
medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it 
was by means of a boy about two years older than Ilbrahim, 
who was injured by a fall from a tree in the vicinity of Pear- 
son’s habitation. As the sufferer’s own home was at some 
distance, Dorothy willingly received him under her roof, and 
became his tender and careful nurse. 

Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in 
physiognomy, and it would have deterred him, in other 
circumstances, from attempting to make a friend of this boy. 
The countenance of the latter immediately impressed a be- 
holder disagreeably, but it required some examination to dis- 
cover that the cause was a very slight distortion of the 
mouth, and the irregular, broken line and near approach of 
the eyebrows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformi- 
ties, was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint, and 
the uneven prominence of the breast ; forming a body, regular 
in its general outline, but faulty in almost all its details* The 
disposition of the boy was sullen and reserved, and the village 
schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in intellect; al- 
though, at a later period in life, he evinced ambition and 
very peculiar talents. But whatever might be his personal 
©r moral irregularities, Ilbrahim’s heart seized upon, and 
clung to him, from the moment that he was brought wounded 


122 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


into the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare 
his own fate with that of the sufferer, and to feel that even 
different modes of misfortune had created a sort of relation- 
ship between them. Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which 
he languished, were neglected; he nestled continually by the 
bedside of the little stranger, and with a fond jealousy, en- 
deavored to be the medium of all the cares that were be- 
stowed upon him. As the boy became convalescent, Ilbrahim 
contrived games suitable to his situation, or amused him by 
a faculty which he had perhaps breathed in with the air of his 
barbaric birthplace. It was that of reciting imaginary ad- 
ventures, on the spur of the moment, and apparently in in- 
exhaustible succession. His tales were of course monstrous, 
disjointed, and without aim; but they were curious on ac- 
count of a vein of human tenderness, which ran through them 
all, and was like a s.weet, familiar face, encountered in the 
midst of wild and unearthly scenery. The auditor paid much 
attention to these romances, and sometimes interrupted them 
by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying shrewdness 
above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity which grated 
very harshly against Ilbrahim’s instinctive rectitude. Nothing, 
however, could arrest the progress of the latter’s affection, 
and there were many proofs that it met with a response from 
the dark and stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The 
boy’s parents at length removed him, to complete his cure 
under their own roof. 

Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure; 
but he made anxious and continual inquiries respecting him, 
and informed himself of the day when he was to reappear 
among his playmates. On a pleasant summer afternoon, the 
children of the neighborhood had assembled in the little for- 
est-crowned amphitheatre behind the meetinghouse, and the 


THE GENTLE BOY 


123 


recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee 
of a score of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy 
voices, which danced among the trees like sunshine become 
audible; the grown men of this weary world, as they jour- 
neyed by the spot, marvelled why life, beginning in such 
brightness, should proceed in gloom ; and their hearts, or their 
imaginations, answered them and said, that the bliss of child- 
hood gushes from its innocence. But it happened that an 
unexpected addition was made to the heavenly little band. 
It was Ilbrahim, who came towards the children with a look 
of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face, as if, hav- 
ing manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to 
fear a repulse from their society. A hush came over their 
mirth the moment they beheld him, and they stood whispering 
to each other while he drew nigh ; but, all at once, the devil 
of their father: entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and 
sending up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor 
Quaker child. In an instant, he was the centre of a brood of 
baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with 
stones, and displayed an instinct of destruction far more 
loathsome than the blood-thirstiness of manhood. 

The invalid, in the mean while, stood apart from the tu- 
mult, crying out with a loud voice, “ Fear not, Ilbrahim, come 
hither and take my hand ” ; and his unhappy friend endeav- 
ored to obey him. After watching the victim’s struggling 
approach, with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the foul- 
hearted little villain lifted his staff, and struck Ilbrahim on 
the mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. The 
poor child’s arms had been raised to guard his head from the 
storm of blows; but now he dropped them at once. His 
persecutors beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged him 
by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point of be- 


124 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


coming as veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into 
heaven. The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few 
neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of rescuing the 
little heretic, and of conveying him to Pearson’s door. 

Ilbrahim’s bodily harm was severe, but long and careful 
nursing accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his 
sensitive spirit was more serious, though not so visible. Its 
signs were principally of a negative character, and to be dis- 
covered only by those who had previously known him. His 
gait was thenceforth slow, even, and unvaried by the sudden 
bursts of sprightlier motion, which had once corresponded to 
his overflowing gladness ; his countenance was heavier, and its 
former play of expression, the dance of sunshine reflected 
from moving water, was destroyed by the cloud over his 
existence ; his notice was attracted in a far less degree by 
passing events, and he appeared to find greater difficulty in 
comprehending what was new to him, than at a happier 
period. A stranger, founding his judgment upon these cir- 
cumstances, would have said that the dulness of the child’s 
intellect widely contradicted the promise of his features; but 
the secret was in the direction of Ilbrahim’s thoughts, which 
were brooding within him when they should naturally have 
been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy to revive his 
former sportiveness was the single occasion on which his 
quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief ; he burst 
into passionate weeping, and ran and hid himself, for his heart 
had become so miserably sore, that even the hand of kind- 
ness tortured it like fire. Sometimes, at night, and probably 
in his dreams, he was heard to cry, ‘ Mother ! mother ! ’ as if 
her place, which a stranger had supplied while Ilbrahim was 
happy, admitted of no substitute in his extreme affliction. 
Perhaps, among the many life-weary wretches then upon the 


THE GENTLE BOY 


125 


earth, there was not one who combined innocence and misery 
like this poor, broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his 
own heavenly nature. 

While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, 
one of an earlier origin and different character had come, to 
its perfection in his adopted father. The incident with which 
this tale commences found Pearson in a state of religious dul- 
ness, yet mentally disquieted and longing for a more 
fervid faith than he possessed. The first effect of 
his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened 

feeling and incipient love for the child’s whole sect- 

but, joined to this, and resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, 
was a proud and ostentatious contempt of their tenets and 
practical extravagances. In the course of much thought, how- 
ever, for the subject struggled irresistibly into his mind, the 
foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the 
points which had particularly offended his reason assumed an- 
other aspect, or vanished entirely away. The work within 
him appeared to go on even while he slept, and that which 
had been a doubt, when he laid down to rest, would often 

hold the place of a truth, confirmed by some forgotten dem- 

onstration, when he recalled his thoughts in the morning. 
But while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusi- 
asts, his contempt, in no wise decreasing towards them, grew 
very fierce against himself ; he imagined, also, that every face of 
his acquaintance wore a sneer, and that every word addressed 
to him was a gibe. Such was his state of mind at the period 
of Ilbrahim’s misfortune ; and the emotions consequent upon 
that event completed the change, of which the child had been 
the original instrument. 

In the mean time, neither the fierceness of the persecutors, 
nor the infatuation of their victims, had decreased. The dun- 


126 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


geons were never empty ; the streets oi almost every village 
echoed daily with a lash; the life of a woman, whose mild 
and Christian spirit no cruelty could embitter, had been sac- 
rificed ; and more innocent blood was yet to. pollute the hands 
that were so often raised in prayer. Early after the Restora- 
tion, the English Quakers represented to Charles II. that a 
“ vein of blood was open in his dominions ” ; but though the 
displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his interfer- 
ence was not prompt. And now the tale must stride forward 
o^er many months, leaving Pearson to encounter ignominy 
and misfortune ; his wife to a firm endurance of a thousand 
sorrows ; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered 
rose-bud ; his mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neg- 
lectful of the holiest trust which can be committed 'to a 
woman. 

A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over 
Pearson’s habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive 
the gloom from his broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent 
forth a glowing heat and a ruddy light, and large logs, drip- 
ping with half-melted snow, lay ready to be cast Upon the 
embers. But the apartment was saddened in its aspect by 
the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once 
adorned it ; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own 
neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished the 
owner. ( And with the furniture of peace, the implements of 
war had likewise disappeared ; the sword was broken, the 
helm and cuirass were cast away forever ; the soldier had 
done with battles, and might not so much as lift his naked 
hand to guard his head. But the Holy Book remained, and 
the table on which it rested was drawn before the fire, while 
two of the persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


127 


He who listened, while the other read, was the master of 
the house, now emaciated in form, and altered as to the ex- 
pression and healthiness of his countenance; for his mind 
had dwelt too long among visionary thoughts, and his body 
had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The hale and 
weather-beaten old man, who sat beside him, had sustained 
less injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. 
In person he was tall and dignified, and, which alone would 
have made him hateful to the Puritans, his gray locks fell 
from beneath his broad-brimmed hat, and rested on his 
shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page, the snow 
drifted against the windows, or eddied in at the crevices of 
the door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney, and 
the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when 
the wind struck the hill at a certain angle, and swept down 
by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the most 
doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the Past were 
speaking, as if the dead had contributed each a whisper, as 
if the Desolation of Ages were breathed in that one lament- 
ing sound. 

The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining, however, 
his hand between the pages which he had been reading, while 
he looked steadfastly at Pearson. The attitude and features 
of the latter might have indicated the endurance of bodily 
pain. ; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his teeeth were 
firmly closed, and his frame was tremulous at intervals with 
a nervous agitation. 

“Friend Tobias,” inquired the old man, compassionately, 
“hast thou found no comfort in these many blessed pas« 
sages of Scripture ? * 

“ Thy voice nas iaden on my ear like a sound afar off ana 
indistinct,” replied Pearson, without lifting his eyes. “ Yea, 


128 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and when I have hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold 
and lifeless, and intended for another and a- lesser grief than 
mine. Remove the book,” he added in a tone of sullen bitter- 
ness. “ I have no part in* its consolations, and they do but 
fret my sorrow the more.” 

“ Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never known 
the light,” said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. 
“ Art thou he that wouldst be content to give all, and endure 
all, for conscience sake; desiring even peculiar trials, that 
thy faith might be purified, and thy heart weaned from worldly 
desires ? And wilt thou sink beneath an affliction which 
happens alike to them that have their portion here below, 
and to them that lay up treasure in heaven ? Faint not, for 
thy burthen is yet light.” 

“ It is heavy ! It is heavier than I can bear ! ” exclaimed 
Pearson, with the impatience of a variable spirit. “From 
my youth upward I have been a man marked out for wrath ; 
and year by year, yea, day after day, I have endured sorrows, 
such as others know pot in a lifetime. And now I speak not 
of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to 
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, 
want, and nakedness. All this I could have borne, and 
counted myself blessed. But when my heart was desolate 
with many losses, I fixed it upon the child of a stranger, and 
he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and now. 
he too must die, as if my love were poison. Verily, I am 
an accursed man, and I will lay me down in the dust, and lift 
up my head no more.” . 

“ Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee ; 
for I also have, had my hours of darkness, wherein I have 
murmured against the cross,” said the old Quaker. He con- 
tinued, perhaps in the hope of distracting his companion’s 


THE GENTLE BOY 


1&9 


thoughts from his own sorrows. “ Even of late was the light 
obscured within me, when the men of blood had banished me 
on pain of death, and the constables led me onward from 
village to village, towards the wilderness. A strong arid 
cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep 
into the flesh, and thou mightst have tracked every reel and 
totter of my foot-steps by the blood that followed. As we 
went on — ” 

“ Have I not borne all this ; and have I murmured ? ” in- 
terrupted Pearson, impatiently. 

“ Nay, friend, but hear me,” continued the other. “ As we 
journeyed on, night darkened on our path, so that no man 
could see the rage of the persecutors, or the constancy of my 
endurance; though Heaven forbid that I should glory therein. 
The lights began to glimmer in the cottage windows, and I 
could discern the' inmates as they gathered in comfort and 
security, every man with his wife and children by their own 
evening hearth. At length we came to a tract of fertile 
land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible around it; 
and behold ! there was a straw-thatched dwelling, which bore 
the very aspect of my home, far over the wild ocean, far in our 
own England. Then came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, 
remembrances that were like death to my soul. The happi- 
ness of my early days was painted to me ; the disquiet of my 
manhood, the altered faith of my declining years. I remem- 
bered how I had been moved to go forth a wanderer, when 
my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my flock, lay on 
her dying bed, and — * 

“ Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment? ” 
exclaimed Pearson, shuddering. 

“ Yea, yea,” replied the old man, hurriedly. “ I was 
kneeling by her bed-side when the voice spoke loud within 


130 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


me ; but immediately I rose, and took my staff, and gat me 
gone. Oh ! that it were permitted me to forget her woeful 
look, when I thus withdrew my arm, and left her journeying 
through the dark valley alone ! for her soul was faint, and 
she had leaned upon my prayers. Now in that night of horror 
I was assailed by the thought that I had been an erring Chris- 
tian, and a cruel parent ; yea, even my daughter, with her pale, 
■dying features, seemed to stand by me and whisper, ‘Father, 
you are deceived ; go home and shelter your gray head.’ Oh ! 
thou, to whom I have looked in my farthest wanderings,” con- 
tinued the Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to heaven, “ in- 
flict not upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated 
agony of my soul, when I believed that all I had done and 
suffered for thee was at the instigation of a mocking fiend ! 
But I yielded not ; I knelt down and wrestled with the tempter, 
while the scourge bit more fiercely into the flesh. My prayer 
was heard, and I went on in peace and joy towards the wil- 
derness.” 

The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the 
calmness of reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale ; 
and his unwonted emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down 
that of his companion. They sat in silence, with their faces 
to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in its red embers, new scenes 
of persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still drifted 
hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the 
logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and 
hissed upon the hearth. A cautious footstep might now and 
then be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound in- 
variably drew the eyes of both Quakers to the door which 
led thither. When a fierce and riotous gust of wind had led 
his thoughts, by a natural association, to homeless travellers 
on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


131 


“ I have wellnigh sunk under my own share of this trial/’ 
observed he, sighing heavily, “yet I would that it might be 
doubled to me, if so the child’s mother could be spared. Her 
wounds have been deep and many, but this will be the sorest 
of all.” 

“ Fear not foi Catharine,” replied the old Quaker, “ for I 
know that valiant woman, and have seen how she can bear 
the cross. A mother’s heart, indeed, is strong in her, and 
may seem to contend mightily with her faith, but soon she will! 
stand up and give thanks that her son has been thus early an 
accepted sacrifice. The boy hath done his work, and she will 
feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her. 
Blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can 
enter into peace ! ” 

The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a por- 
tentous sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking at the 
outer door. Pearson’s wan countenance grew paler, for many 
a visit of persecution had taught him what to dread; the old 
man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his glance was 
firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy. 

“ The men of blood have come to seek me,” he observed* 
with calmness. “ They have heard how I was moved to re- 
turn from banishment; and now I am to be led to prison, and 
thence to death. It is an end I have long looked for. I will 
open unto them, lest they say, * Lo, he feareth ! ’ ” 

“ Nay, I will present myself before them,” said Pearson, 
with recovered fortitude. “ It may be that they seek me aione* 
and know not that thou abidest with me.” 

“ Let us go boldly, both one and the other,” rejoined his 
companion. “It is not fitting that thou or I should shrink.” 

They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, 
which they opened, bidding the applicant, “ Ccme in, in God’s 


132 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


name ! ” A furious blast of wind drove the storm into their 
faces, and extinguished the lamp ; they had barely time to dis- 
cern a figure, so white from head to foot with the drifted 
snow, that it seemed like Winter’s self, come in human shape 
to seek refuge from its own desolation. 

“ Enter, friend, and do thou thy errand, be it what it may,’* 
said Pearson. “ It must needs be pressing, since thou comest 
on such a bitter night.” 

“ Peace be with this household,” said the stranger, when 
they stood on the floor of the inner apartment. 

Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering 
embers of the fire, till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze; 
it was a female voice that had spoken ; it was a female form 
that shone out, cold and wintry, in that comfortable light. 

“Catharine, blessed woman,” exclaimed the old man, “art 
thou come to this darkened land again ? art thou come to bear 
a valiant testimony as in former years ? The scourge hath 
not prevailed against thee, and from the dungeon hast thou 
come forth triumphant; but. strengthen, strengthen now thy 
heart, Catharine, for Heaven will prove thee yet this once, 
ere thou go thy reward.” 

“ Rejoice, friends ! ” she replied. “ Thou who hast been long 
of our people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, 
rejoice! Lo! I come the messenger of glad tidings, for the 
day of persecution is overpast. The heart of the king, even 
Charles, hath been moved in gentleness towards us, and he 
hath sent forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of 
blood. A ship’s company of our friends hath arrived at yon- 
der town, and I also sailed joyfully among them.” 

As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about the room, 
in search of him for whose sake security was dear to her. 


THE GENTLE BOY 


133 


Pearson made a silent appeal to the old man, nor did the 
latter shrink from the painful task assigned him. 

“ Sister,” he began, in a softened, yet perfectly calm tone, 
“ thou tellest us of His love, manifested in temporal good ; 
and now must we speak to thee of that self-same love, dis- 
played in chastenings. Hitherto, Catharine, thou hast been 
as one journeying in a darksome and difficult path, and lead- 
ing an infant by the hand; fain wouldst thou have looked 
heavenward continually, but still the cares of that little child 
have drawn thine eyes and thy affections to the earth. Sis- 
ter.! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede 
thine own no more.” 

But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled; she 
shook like a leaf, she turned white as the very snow that 
hung drifted into her hair. The firm old man extended his hand 
and held her up, keeping his eye upon hers, as if to re- 
press any outbreak of passion. 

“ I am a woman, I am but a woman ; will He try me 
above my strength ? ” said Catharine very quickly, and al- 
most in a whisper. “ I have been wounded sore ; I have 
suffered much ; many things in the body, many in the mind ; 
crucified in myself, and in them, that were dearest to me. 
Surely,” added she, with a long shudder, “ He hath spared 
me in this one thing.” She broke forth with sudden and irre- 
pressible violence, “Tell me, man of cold heart, what has 
God done to me ? Hath he cast me down, never to rise 
again ? Hath he crushed my very heart in His hand ? And 
thou, to whom I committed my child, how hast thou fulfilled 
thy trust ? Give me back the boy, well, sound, alive, alive; 
or earth and heaven shall avenge me ! ” 

The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by the 
faint, the very faint voice of a child. 


134 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his 
aged guest, and to Dorothy that Ilbrahim’s brief and troubled 
pilgrimage drew near its close. The two former would will- 
ingly have remained by him, to make use of the prayers and 
pious discourses which they deemed appropriate to the time, 
and which, if they be impotent as to the departing traveller’s 
reception in the world whither he goes, may at least sustain 
him in bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrahim uttered 
no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked upon 
him; so that Dorothy’s entreaties, and their own conviction 
that the child’s feet might tread heaven’s pavement and not 
soil it, had induced the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim 
then closed his eyes and grew calm, and except for now and 
then a kind and low word to his nurse, might have been 
thought to slumber. As night-fall came on, however, and the 
storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose 
of the boy’s mind, and to render his sense of hearing act- 
ive and acute. If a passing wind lingered to shake the 
casement, he strove to turn his head towards it ; if the 
door jarred to and fro upon its hinges, he looked long and 
anxiously thitherward ; if the heavy voice of the old man, 
as he read the Scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child 
almost held his dying breath to listen ; if a snow-drift swept 
by the cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a garment, 
Ilbrahim seemed to watch that some visitant should enter. 

But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever secret 
hope had agitated him, and with one low, complaining whis- 
per, turned his cheek upon the pillow. He then addressed 
Dorothy with his usual sweetness, and besought her to draw 
near him ; she did so, and Ilbrahim took her hand in both of 
his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if to assure him- 
self that he retained it. At intervals, and without disturb 


THE GENTLE BOY 


135 


ing the repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling 
passed over him from head to foot, as if a mild but some- 
what cool wind had breathed upon him, and made him shiver. 
As the boy thus led her by the hand, in his quiet progress 
over the borders of eternity, Dorothy almost imagined that 
she could discern the near, though dim delightfulness of the 
home he was about to reach ; she would not have enticed the 
little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself that she 
must leave him and return. Bqt just when Ilbrahim’s feet 
were pressing on the soil of Paradise, he heard a voice be- 
hind him, and it recalled him a few, few paces of the weary 
path which he had travelled. As Dorothy looked upon his 
features, she perceived that their placid expression was again 
disturbed ; her own thoughts had been so wrapped in him, 
that all sounds of the storm, and of human speech, were lost 
to her; but when Catharine’s shriek pierced through the 
room, the boy strove to raise himself. 

“Friend, she is come ! Open unto her!” cried he. 

In a moment, his mother was kneeling by the bedside; she 
drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled there, with no 
violence of joy, but contentedly, as if he were hushing him- 
self to sleep. He looked into her face, and reading its agony, 
said, with feeble earnestness, “ Mourn not, dearest mother. 
I am happy now.” And with these words, the gentle boy was 
dead. 

****** 

The king’s mandate to stay the New England persecutors 
was effectual in preventing further martyrdoms ; but the 
colonial authorities, trusting in the remoteness of their 
situation, and perhaps in the supposed instability of the royal 
government, shortly renewed their severities in all other re- 
spects. Catharine’s fanaticism had become wilder bv the 


136 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sundering of all human ties ; and wherever a scourge was 
lifted, there was she to receive the blow ; and whenever a 
dungeon was unbarred, thither she came, to cast herself upon 
the floor. But in process of time, a more Christian spirit — a 
spirit of forbearance, though not of cordiality or approbation 
began to pervade the land in regard to the persecuted sect. 
And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims eyed her rather in pity 
than in wrath ; when the mattpns fed her with the fragments 
of their children’s food, and offered her a lodging on a hard 
and lowly bed ; when no little crowd of school-boys left their 
sports to cast stones after the roving enthusiast ; then did 
Catharine return to Pearson’s dwelling, and made that her 
home. 

As if Ilbrahim’s sweetness yet lingered round his ashes, as 
if his gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent 
a true religion, her fierce and vindictive nature was softened 
by the same griefs which had once irritated it. When the 
course of years had made the features of the unobtrusive 
mourner familiar in the settlement, she became a subject of 
not deep, but general interest ; a being on whom the otherwise 
superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed. Every one 
spoke of her with that degree of pity # which it is pleasant to 
experience ; every one was ready to do her the little kind- 
nesses, which are not costly, yet manifest good-will ; and 
when at last she died, a long train of her once bitter perse- 
cutors followed her, with decent sadness and tears that were 
not painful, to her place by Ilbrahim’s green and sunken 
grave. 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 

A young fellow, a tobacco-peddler by trade, was on his 
way from Morristown, where he had dealt largely with the 
Deacon of the Shaker settlement, to the village of Parker’s 
Falls, on Salmon River. He had a neat little cart, painted 
green, with a box of cigars depicted on each side-panel, and 
an Indian chief, holding a pipe and a golden tobacco-stalk, on 
the rear. The pedler drove a smart little mare, and was a 
young man of excellent character, keen at a bargain, but none 
the worse liked by the Yankees; who, as I have heard 
them say, would rather be shaved with a sharp razor than a 
dull one. Especially was he beloved by the, pretty girls along 
the Connecticut, whose favor he used to court by presents of 
the best smoking tobacco in his stock; knowing well that the 
country lasses of New England are generally great perform- 
ers on pipes. Moreover, as will be seen in the course of my 
story, the pedler was inquisitive, and something of a tattler, 
always itching to hear the news, and anxious to tell it again. 

After an early breakfast at Morristown, the tobacco-pedler, 
whose name was Dominicus Pike, had travelled seven miles 
through a solitary piece of woods, without speaking a word 
to anybody but himself and his little grey mare. It being 
nearly seven o’clock, he was as eager to hold a morning gossip 
as a city shop-keeper to read the morning paper. An op- 
portunity seemed at hand, when, after lighting a cigar with a 
sun-glass, he looked up, and perceived a man coming over the 
brow of the hill, at the foot of which the pedler had stopped 

137 


138 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


his green cart. Dominicus watched him as he descended, 
and noticed that he carried a bundle over his shoulder on the 
end of a stick, and travelled with a weary, yet determined 
pace. He did not look as if he had started in the freshness of 
the morning, but had footed it all night, and meant to do the 
same all day. 

“ Good morning, mister,” said Dominicus, when within 
speaking distance. “ You go a pretty good jog. What’s the 
latest news at Parker’s Falls?” 

The man pulled"the broad brim of a gray hat over his 
eyes, and answered, rather sullenly, that he did not come from 
Parker’s Falls, which, as being the limit of his own day’s 
journey, the pedler had naturally mentioned in his inquiry. 

“Well, then,” rejoined Dominicus Pike, “let’s have the 
latest news where you did come from. I’m not particular 
about Parker’s Falls. Any place will answer.” 

Being thus importuned, the traveller — who was as ill-look- 
ing a fellow as one would desire to meet, in a solitary piece of 
woods — appeared to hesitate a little, as if he was either 
searching his memory for news, or weighing the expediency 
of telling it. At last mounting on the step of the cart, he 
whispered in the ear of Dominicus, though he might have 
shouted aloud and no other mortal would have heard him. 

“ I do remember one little trifle of news,” said he. “ Old 
Mr. Higginbotham, of Kimballton, was murdered in his 
orchard, at eight o’clock last night, by an Irishman and a 
nigger. They strung him up to the branch of a St. Michael’s 
pear-tree, where nobody would find him till the morning.” 

As soon as this horrible intelligence was communicated, the 
stranger betook himself to his journey again, with more speed 
than ever, not even turning his head when Dominicus invited j 
him to smoke a Spanish cigar and relate all the particulars. 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 139 


The pedler whistled to his mare and went up the hill, ponder- 
ing on the doleful fate of Mr. Higginbotham, whom he had 
known in the way of trade, having sold him many a bunch of 
long nines, and a great deal of pigtail, lady’s twist, and fig 
tobacco. He was rather astonished at the rapidity with which 
the news had spread. Kimballton was nearly sixty miles dis- 
tant in a straight line ; the murder had been perpetrated only 
at 8 o’clock the preceding night ; yet Dominicus had heard of 
it at seven in the morning, when, in all probability, poor Mr. 
Higginbotham’s own family had but just discovered his corpse, 
hanging on the St. Michael’s pear-tree. The stranger on foot 
must have worn seven-league boots, to travel at such a rate. 

“Ill news flies fast, they say,” thought Dominicus Pike; 
but this beats railroads. The fellow ought to be hired to go 
express with the President’s Message.” 

The difficulty was solved, by supposing that the narrator 
had made a mistake of one day, in the date of the occurrence; 
so that our friend did not hesitate to. introduce the stoi., 
every tavern and country store along the road, expending a 
whole bunch of Spanish wrappers among at least twenty 
horrified audiences. He found himself invariably the first 
bearer of the intelligence, and was so pestered with questions 
that he could not avoid filling up the outline, till it became 
quite a respectable narrative. He met with one piece of cor- 
roborative evidence. Mr. Higginbotham was a trader; and a 
former clerk of his, to whom Dominicus related the facts, 
testified that the old gentleman was accustomed to return 
home through the orchard, about nightfall, with the money 
and valuable papers of the store in his pocket. The clerk 
manifested but little grief at Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe, 
hinting, what the pedler had discovered in his own dealings 
with him, that he was a crusty old fellow, as close as a vise. 


140 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


His property would descend to a pretty niece who was now 
keeping school in Kimballton. 

What with telling the news for the public good, and driving 
bargains for his own, Dominicus was so much delayed on the 
road, that he chose to put up at a tavern, about five miles short 
of Parker’s Falls. After supper, lighting one of his prime 
cigars, he seated himself in the bar-room, and went through 
the story of the murder, which had grown so fast that it took 
him an half hour to tell. There were as many as twenty 
people in the room, nineteen of whom received it all for 
gospel. But the twentieth was an elderly farmer, who had 
arrived on horseback a short time before, and was now seated 
in a corner, smoking his pipe. When the story was concluded, 
he rose up very deliberately, brought his chair right in front 
of Dominicus, and stared him full in the face, puffing out the 
vilest tobacco smoke the pedler had ever smelt. 

“ Will you make affidavit,” demanded he in the tone of a 
Country justice taking an examination, “that old Squire Hig- 
ginbotham of Kimballton was murdered in his orchard the 
night before last, and found hanging on his great pear-tree 
yesterday morning?” 

“ I tell the story as I heard it, mister,” answered Dominicus, 
dropping his half-burnt cigar ; “ I don’t say that I saw the 
thing done. So I can’t take my oath that he was murdered 
exactly in that way.” 

“ But I can take mine,” said the farmer, “ that if Squire 
Higginbotham was murdered night before last, I drank a 
glass of bitters with his ghost this morning. Being a neighbor 
of mine, he called me into his store, as I was, riding by, and 
treated me, and then asked me to do a little business for him 
on the road. He didn’t seem to know any more about his own 
murder than I did.” 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 141 

t : „ 

“Why, then it can’t be a fact !” exclaimed Dominicus Pike. 
“I guess he’d have mentioned it, if it was,” said the old 
farmer; and he removed his chair back to the corner, leaving 
Dominicus quite down in the mouth. 

Here was a sad resurrection of old Mr. Higginbotham ! 
The pedler had no heart to mingle in the conversation any- 
more, but comforted himself with a glass of gin and water, 
and went to bed, where, all night long, he dreamt of hanging 
on the St. Michael’s pear-tree. To avoid the old farmer (whom 
he so detested that his suspension would have pleased him bet- 
ter than Mr. Higginbotham’s), Dominicus rose in the gray of 
the morning, put the little mare into the green cart, and trotted 
swiftly away towards Parker’s Falls. The fresh breeze, the 
dewy road, and the pleasant summer dawn revived his spirits, 
and might have encouraged him to repeat the old story, had 
there been anybody awake to hear it. But he met neither ox- 
team, light wagon, chaise, horseman, nor foot-traveller, till, 
just as he crossed Salmon River, a man came trudging down 
to the bridge with a bundle over his shoulder, on the end of a 
stick. / 

“ Good morning, mister,” said the pedler, reining in his 
mare. “If you come from Kimballton or that neighborhood, 
may be you can tell me the real fact about this affair of old 
Mr. Higginbotham. Was the old fellow actually murdered 
two or three nights ago, by an Irishman and a nigger?” 

Dominicus had spoken in too great a hurry to observe, at 
first, that the stranger himself had a deep tinge of negro blood. 
On hearing this sudden question, the Ethiopian appeared to 
change his skin, its yellow hue becoming a ghastly white, 
while, shaking and stammering, he thus replied : — 

“No ! no ! There was no colored man ! It was an Irishman 
that hanged him last night, at eight o’clock. I came away at 


142 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


seven ! His folks can’t have looked for him in the orchard 
yet.” 

Scarcely had the yellow man spoken, when he interrupted 
himself, and though he seemed weary enough before, continued 
his journey at a pace which would have kept the pedler’s mare 
on a smart trot. Dominicus stared after him in great per- 
plexity. If the murder had not been committed till Tuesday 
night, who was the prophet that had foretold it, in all its 
circumstances, on Tuesday morning? If Mr. Higginbotham’s 
corpse were not yet discovered by his own family, how came 
the mulatto, at above thirty miles distance, to know that he 
was hanging in the orchard, especially as he had left Kimball- 
ton before the unfortunate man was hanged at all. These 
ambiguous circumstances, with the stranger’s surprise and ter- 
ror, made Dominicus think of raising a hue and cry after him, 
as an accomplice in the murder; since the murder, it seemed, 
had really been perpetrated. 

“But let the poor devil go,” thought the pedler. “I don’t 
want his black blood on my head; and hanging the nigger 
wouldn’t unhang Mr. Higginbotham. Unhang the old gentle- 
man ! It’s a sin, I know ; but I should hate to have him come 
to life a second time, and give me the lie !” 

With these meditations, Dominicus Pike drove into the street 
of Parker’s Falls, which, as everybody knows, is as thriving a 
village as three cotton-factories and a slitting-mill can make 
it. The machinery was not in motion, and but a few of the 
shop doors unbarred, when he alighted in the stable yard of 
the tavern, and made it his first business to order the mare 
four quarts of oats. His second duty, of course, was to impart 
Mr. Higginbotham’s catastrophe to the ostler. He deemed it 
advisable, however, not to be too positive as to the date of the 
direful fact, and also to be uncertain whether it were perpe- 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 143 


trated by an Irishman and a mulatto, or by the son of Erin 
alone. Neither did he profess to relate it on his own author- 
ity, or that of any one person; but mentioned it as a report 
generally diffused. 

The story ran through the town like fire among girdled 
trees, and became so much the universal talk, that nobody 
could tell whence it had originated. Mr. Higginbotham was 
as well known at Parker’s Falls as any citizen of the place, 
being part owner of the slit.ting-mill' and a considerable stock- 
holder in the cotton-factories. The inhabitants felt their own 
prosperity interested in his fate. Such was the excitement, 
that the Parker’s Falls Gazette anticipated its regular day of 
publication, and came out with half a form of blank papei 
and a column of double pica emphasized with capitals, and 
headed HORRID MURDER OF MR. HIGGINBOTHAM! 
Among other dreadful details, the printed account described 
the mark of the cord round the dead man’s neck, and 
stated the i\umber of thousand dollars of which he had 
been robbed ; there was much pathos also about the affliction 
of his niece, who had gone from one fainting fit to another, 
ever since her uncle was found hanging on the St. Michael’s 
pear-tree with his pockets inside out. The village poet like- 
wise commemorated the young lady’s grief in seventeen 
stanzas of a ballad. The selectmen held a meeting, and, in 
consideration of Mr. Higginbotham’s claims on the town, 
determined to issue handbills, offering a reward of five hun- 1 
dred dollars for the apprehension of his murderers, and the 
recovery of the stolen property. 

Meanwhile, the whole population of Parker’s Falls, consist- 
ing of shopkeepers, mistresses of boarding houses, factory 
girls, mill men, and school boys, rushed into the street, and 
kept up such a terrible loquacity, as more than compensated 


144 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


for the silence of the cotton-machines, which refrained from 
their usual dip, out of respect to the deceased. Had Mr. 
Higginbotham cared about posthumous renown, his untimely 
ghost would have exulted in this tumult. Our friend Domin- 
icus, in his vanity of heart, forgot his intended precau- 
tions, and mounting on the town pump, announced himself 
as the bearer # of the authentic intelligence which had caused so 
wonderful a sensation. He immediately became the great man 
of the moment, and had just begun a new edition of the 
narrative, with a voice like a field preacher, when the mail- 
stage drove into the village street. It had travelled all night, 
and must have shifted horses at Kimballton at three in the 
morning. 

“Now we shall hear all the particulars,” shouted the 
crowd. 

The coach rumbled up to the piazza of the tavern, fol- 
lowed by a thousand people; for if any man had been mind- 
ing his own business till then, he now left it at sixes and 
sevens, to hear the news. The pedler, foremost in the race, 
discovered two passengers, both of whom- had been startled 
from a comfortable nap to find themselves in the centre of a 
mob. Every man assailing them with separate questions, all 
propounded at once, the couple were struck speechless, though 
one was a lawyer and the other a young lady. 

“Mr. Higginbotham ! Mr. Higginbotham ! Tell us the 
particulars about old Mr. Higginbotham !” bawled the mob. 
“What is the coroner’s verdict? Are the murderers appre- 
hended? Is Mr. Higginbotham’s niece come out of her faint- 
ing fits? Mr. Higginbotham ! Mr. Higginbotham!!” 

The coachman said not a word, except to swear awfully at 
the ostler for not bringing him a fresh team of horses. The 
lawyer inside had generally his wits about him, even when 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 145 

asleep; the first thing he did, after learning the cause of the 
excitement, was to produce a large red pocket-book. Mean- 
time, Dominicus Pike, being an extremely polite young man, 
and also suspecting that a female tongue would tell the story 
as glibly as a lawye s, had handed the lady out of the coach. 
She was a fine, smart girl, now wide awake and bright as a 
button, and had such a sweet pretty mouth, that Dominicus 
would almost as lieves have heard a love tale from it as a tale 
of murder. 

“Gentleman and ladies,” said the lawyer, to the shop keep- 
ers, the mill men, and the factory girls, “I can assure you 
that some unaccountable mistake, or, more probably, a wilful 
falsehood, maliciously contrived to injure Mr. Higginbotham’s 
credit, has excited this singular uproar. We passed through 
Kimballton at three o’clock this morning, and most certainly 
should have been informed of the murder had any been per- 
petrated. But I have proof nearly as strong as Mr. Higgin- 
botham’s own oral testimony in the negative. Here is a note, 
relating to a suit of his in the Connecticut courts, which was 
delivered me from that gentleman himself. I find it dated at 
ten o’clock last evening.” 

So saying, the lawyer exhibited the date and signature of 
the note, which irrefragably proved, either that this perverse 
Mr. Higginbotham was alive when he wrote it, or — as some 
deemed the more probable case of two doubtful ones — that 
he was so absorbed in worldly business as to continue to trans- 
act it, even after his death. But unexpected evidence was 
forthcoming. The young lady, after listening to the pedler’s 
explanation, merely seized a moment to smooth her gown and 
put her curls in order, and then appeared at the tavern-door, 
making a modest signal to be heard. 

“Good people,” said she, “I am Mr. Higginbotham’s niece.’* 


146 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


A wondering murmur passed through the crowd, on behold- 
ing her so rosy and bright ; that same unhappy niece, whom 
they had supposed, on the authority of the Parker’s Falls 
Gazette, to be lying at death’s door in a fainting fit. But 
some shrewd fellows had doubted, all al ng, whether a young 
lady would be quite so desperate at the hanging of a rich old 
uncle. 

“You see,” continued Miss Higginbotham, with a smile, 
“that this strange story is quite unfounded, as to myself ; and 
I believe I may affirm it to be equally so, in regard to my 
dear uncle Higginbotham. He has the kindness to give me 
a home in his house, though I contribute to my own support 

by teaching a school. I left Kimballton this morning to spend 

\ 

the vacation of commencement week, with a friend, about five 
miles from Parker’s Falls. My generous uncle, when he 
heard me on the stairs, called me to his bedside, and gave me 
two dollars and fifty cents, to pay my stage fare, and another 
dollar for my extra expenses. He then laid his pocketbook 
under his pillow, shook hands with me, and advised me to 
take some biscuit in my bag, instead of breakfasting on the 
road. I feel confident, therefore, that I left my beloved rela- 
tive alive, and trust that I shall find him so on my return.” 

The young lady courtesied at the close of her speech, which 
was so sensible and well-worded, and delivered with such 
grace and propriety, that everybody thought her fit to be 
Preceptress of the best Academy in the State. But a stranger 
would have supposed that Mr. Higginbotham was an object c 
abhorrence at Parker’s Falls, and that a thanksgiving had been 
proclaimed for his murder, so excessive was the wrath of the 
inhabitants on learning their mistake. The mill men resolved 
to bestow public honors on Dominicus Pike, only hesitating 
whether to tar and feather him, ride him on a rail, or refresh 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 147 


him with an ablution at the town-pump, on the top of which he 
had declared himself the bearer of the news. The selectmen, 
by advice of the lawyer, spoke of prosecuting him for a mis- 
demeanor, in circulating unfounded reports, to the great dis- 
turbance of the peace of the commonwealth. Nothing saved 
Dominicus, either from mob-law or a court of justice, but an 
eloquent appeal made by the young lady in his behalf. Ad- 
dressing a few words of heartfelt gratitude to his benefactress, 
he mounted the green cart and rode out of town, under a dis- 
charge of artillery from the school-boys, who found plenty 
of ammunition in the neighborhood clay-pits and mud-holes. 
As he turned his head, to exchange a farewell glance with Mr. 
Higginbotham’s niece, a ball, of the consistence of hasty-pud- 
ding, hit him slap in the mouth, giving him a most grim 
aspect. His whole person was so bespattered with the like 
filthy missiles, that he had almost a mind to ride back, and 
supplicate for the threatened ablution at the town pump ; for, 
though not meant in kindness, it would now have been a deed 
of charity. 

However, the sun shone bright on poor Dominicus, and the 
mud, an emblem of all stains of undeserved opprobrium, was 
easily brushed off when dry. Being a funny rogue, his heart 
soon cheered up ; nor could he refrain from a hearty laugh at 
the uproar which his story had excited. The handbills of the 
selectmen would cause the commitment of all the vagabonds 
in the State ; the paragraph in the Parker’s Falls Gazette 
would be reprinted from Maine to Florida, and perhaps form 
an item in the London newspapers; and many a miser would 
tremble for his money-bags and life, on learning the catas- 
trophe of Mr. Higginbotham. The pedler meditated with 
much fervor on the charms of the young schoolmistress, and 
swore that Daniel Webster never spoke nor looked so like an 


148 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


angel as Miss Higginbotham, while defending him from the 
wrathful populace at Parker’s Falls. 

Dominicus was now on the Kimballton turnpike, having 
all along determined to visit that place, though business had 
drawn him out of the most direct road from Morristown. As 
he approached the scene of the supposed murder, he continued 
to revolve the circumstances in his mind, and was astonished 
at the aspect which the whole case assumed. Had nothing 
occurred to corroborate the story of the first traveller, it might 
now have been considered as a hoax ; but the yellow man was 
evidently acquainted either with the report or the fact; and 
there was a mystery in his dismayed and guilty look on being 
abruptly questioned. When,* to this singular combination of 
incidents, it was added that the rumor tallied exactly with Mr. 
Higginbotham’s character and habits of life ; and that he had 
an orchard, and a St. Michael’s pear-tree, near which he 
always passed at nightfall ; the circumstantial evidence 
appeared so strong that Dominicus doubted whether the auto- 
graph produced by the lawyer, or even the niece’s direct testi- 
mony, ought to be equivalent. Making cautious inquiries 
along the road, the pedler further learned that Mr. Higgin- 
botham had in his service an Irishman of doubtful character, 
whom he had hired without a recommendation, on the score 
of economy. 

“May I be hanged myself,” exclaimed Dominicus Pike aloud, 
^on reaching the top of a lonely hill, “if I’ll believe old Higgin- 
botham is unhanged, till I see him with my own eyes, and 
hear it from his own mouth ! And as he’s a real shaver, I’ll 
have the minister or some other responsible man for an 
endorser.” 

It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on 
Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the vil- 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 149 


lage of this name. His little mare was fast bringing him up 
with a man on horseback, who trotted through the gate a few 
rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer, and kept 
on towards the village. Dommicus was acquainted with the 
toll-man, and while making change, the usual remarks on the 
weather passed between them. 

“I suppose,” said the pedler, throwing back his whiplash, 
to bring it down like a feather on the mare’s flank, “you have 
not seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or 
two?” 

“Yes,” answered the toll-gatherer. “He passed the gate just 
before you drove up, arid yonder he rides now, if you can see 
him through the dusk. He’s been to Woodfield this after- 
noon, attending a sheriff’s sale there. The pld man generally 
shakes hands and has a little chat with me; but to-night he 
nodded, — as if to say, ‘Charge my toll/ — and jogged on; for 
wherever he goes, he must always be home at eight o’clock/ 

“So they tell me,” said Dominicus. 

“I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squill 
does,” continued the toll-gatherer. “Says I to myself, to- 
night, He’s more like a ghost or an old mummy than good 
flesh and blood.” 

The pedler strained his eyes through the twilight, and could 
just discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. 
He seemed to recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham ; but 
through the evening shadows, and amid the dust from the 
horse’s feet, the figure appeared dim and unsubstantial; as if 
the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded of 
darkness and gray light. Dominicus shivered. 

“Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world, 
by way of the Kimballton turnpike,” thought he. 

He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the 


150 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, till the 
latter was concealed by a bend of the road. On reaching this 
point, the pedler no longer saw the man on horseback, but 
found himself at the head of the village street, not far from 
a number of stores and two taverns, clustered round the meet- 
ing-house steeple. On his left was a stone wall and a gate, 
the boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard, 
farther still a mowing-field, and last of all a house. These 
were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwelling 
stood beside the old highway, but had been left in the back 
ground by the Kimballton turnpike. Dominicus knew the 
place ; and the little mare stopped short by instinct ; for he 
was not conscious of tightening the reins. 

“For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate !” said he, 
trembling. “I never shall be my own man again, till I see 
whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michael’s 
pear-tree ! ” 

He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn around the 
gate post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot, as if 
Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the village clock 
tolled eight, and as each de6p stroke fell, Dominicus gave a 
fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the 
solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated pear-tree. One 
great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the , 
path, and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. But 
something seemed to struggle beneath the branch ! 

The pedler had never pretended to more courage than befits 
a man of peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his 
valor on this awful emergency. Certain it is, however, that 
he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irishman with the 
butt-end of his whip, and found — not indeed hanging on the 


MR. HIGGINBOTHAM'S CATASTROPHE 151 


St. Michael’s pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a halter 
round his neck — the old identical Mr. Higginbotham! 

“Mr. Higginbotham,” said Dominicus, tremulously, “you’re 
an honest man, and I’ll take your word for it. Have you 
been hanged or not?” 

If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will ex- 
plain the simple machinery by which this “coming event” was 
made to “cast its shadow before.” Three men had plotted 
the robbery and murder of Mr. Higginbotham ; two of them, 
successively, lost courage and fled, each delaying the crime one 
night, by their disappearance; the third was in the act of per- 
petration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of fate, 
like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of 
Dominicus Pike. 

It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took the 
pedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty 
schoolmistress, and settled his whole property on their chil- 
dren, allowing themselves the interest. In due time, the old 
gentleman capped the climax of his favors by dying a 
Christian death, in bed, since which melancholy event Do- 
minicus Pike has removed from Kimballton, and established 
a large tobacco manufactory in my native village. 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE 


Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! 

The town-crier has rung his bell, at a distant corner, and 
little Annie stands on her father’s door-steps, trying to hear 
what the man with the loud voice is talking about. Let me 
listen too. Oh ! he is telling the people that an elephant, and 
a lion, and a royal tiger, and a horse with horns, and other 
strange beasts from foreign countries, have come to town, 
and will receive all visitors who choose to wait upon them ! 
Perhaps little Annie would like to go. Yes; and I can see 
that the pretty child is weary of this wide and pleasant street, 
with the green trees flinging their shade across the quiet sun- 
shine, and the pavements and the sidewalks all as clean as if 
the housemaid had just swept them with her broom. She 
feels that impulse to go strolling away — that longing after 
the mystery of the great world — which many children feel, 
and which I felt in my childhood. Little Annie shall take a 
ramble with me. See ! I do but hold out my hand, and, like 
some bright bird in the sunny air, with her blue silk frock 
fluttering upwards from her white pantalets, she comes bound- 
ing on tiptoe across the street. 

Smooth back your brown curls, Annie; and let me tie on 
your bonnet, and we will set forth ! What a strange couple to 
go on their rambles together! One walks in black attire, 
with a measured step, and a heavy brow, and his thoughtful 
eyes bent down, while the gjay little girl trips lightly along, as 
if she were forced to keep hold of my hand, lest her feet 

152 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE 


153 


should dance away from the earth. Yet there is sympathy 
between us. If I pride myself on anything, it is because I 
have a smile that children love; and, on the other hand, there 
are few grown ladies that could entice me from the side of 
little Annie ; for I delight to let my mind go hand in hand 
with the mind of a sinless child. So, come, Annie; but if I 
moralize as we go, do not listen to me; only look about you, 
and be merry ! 

Now we turn the corner. Here are hacks with two horses, 
and stage-coaches with four, thundering to meet each other, 
and trucks and carts moving at a slower pace, being heavily 
laden with barrels from the wharves, arid here are rattling, 
gigs, which perhaps will be smashed to pieces before our 
eyes. Hitherward, also, comes a man trundling a wheelbarrow 
along the pavement. Is not little Annie afraid of such a 
tumult? No; she does not even shrink closer to my side, but 
passes on with fearless confidence, a happy child amidst a 
great throng of grown people, who pay the same reverence 
to her infancy that they would to extreme old age. Nobody 
jostles her; all turn aside to make way for little Annie; and, 
what is most singular, she appears conscious of her claim to 
such respect. Now her eyes brighten with pleasure ! A street 
musician has seated himself on the steps of yonder church, and 
pours forth his strains to the busy town, a melody that has 
gone astray among the tramp of footsteps, the buzz of voices, 
and the war of passing wheels. Who heeds the poor organ- 
grinder? None but myself and little Annie, whose feet begin 
to move in unison with the lively tune, as if she were loath that 
music should be wasted without a dance. But where would 
Annie find a partner? Some had the gout in their toes, or the 
rheumatism in their joints; some are stiff with age; sortie 
feeble with disease; some are so lean that their bones would 


154 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


rattle, and others of such/ ponderous size that their agility 
would crack the flag-stones; but many, many have leaden 
feet, because their hearts are far heavier than lead. It is a 
sad thought that I have chanced upon. What a company of 
dancers should we be! For I, too, am a gentleman of sober 
footsteps, and therefore, little Annie, let us walk sedately on. 

It is a question with me, whether this giddy child, or my 
sage self, have most pleasure in looking at the shop-windows. 
We love the silks of sunny hue, that glow within the darkened 
premises of the spruce dry-goods men ; we are pleasantly 
dazzled by the burnished silver, and the chased gold, the 
rings of wedlock and the costly love-ornaments, glistening at 
the window of the jeweller; but Annie, more than I, seeks 
for a glimpse of her passing figure in the dusty looking- 
glasses at the hardware stores. All that is bright and gay 
attracts us both. 

Here is a shop to which the recollections of my boyhooQ, 
as well as present partialities, give a peculiar magic. How 
delightful to let the fancy revel on the dainties of a con- 
fectioner ; those pies, with such white and flaky paste, their 
contents being a mystery, whether rich mince, with whole 
plums intermixed, or piquant apple, delicately rose-flavored; 
those cakes, heart-shaped or round, piled in a lofty pyramid; 
those sweet little circlets, sweetly named kisses ; those dark, 
majestic masses, fit to be bridal loaves at the wedding of an 
heiress, mountains in size, their summits deeply snow-covered 
with sugar ! Then the mighty treasures of sugar plums, white 
and crimson and yellow, in large glass vases ; and candy of 
all varieties ; and those little cockles, or whatever they are 
called, much prized by children for their sweetness, and more 
for the mottoes which they enclose, by love-sick maids and 
bachelors ! Oh ! my mouth waters, little Annie, and so doth 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE 


155 




yours ; but we will not be tempted, except to an imaginary 
feast ; so let us hasten onward, devouring the vision of a 
plum-cake. 

Here are pleasures, as some people would say, of a more 
exalted kind, in a window of a bookseller. Is Annie a literary 
lady? Yes; she is deeply read in Peter Parley’s tomes, and 
has an increasing love for fairy tales, though seldom met 
with now-a-days, and she will subscribe, next year, to the 
Juvenile Miscellany. But, truth to tell, she is apt to turn 
away from the printed page, and keep gazing at the pretty 
pictures, such as the gay-colored ones which make this 
shop-window the continual loitering-place of children. What 
would Annie think, if, in the book which I mean to send her, 
on New Year’s day, she should find her- sweet little self, bound 

p in silk or morocco with gilt edges, there to remain till she 
jecome a woman grown with children of her own to read 
about their mother’s childhood! That would be very queer. 

Little Annie is weary of pictures, and pulls me onward by 
the hand, till suddenly we pause at the most wondrous shop 
in all the town. Oh, my stars ! Is this a toy-shop, or is it 
fairy-land? For here are gilded chariots, in which the king 
and queen of the fairies might ride side by side, while their 
courtiers, on these small horses, should gallop in triumphal 
procession before and behind the royal pair. Here, too, are 
dishes of china ware, fit to be the dining set of those same 
princely personages, when they make a regal banquet in the 
"tateliest hall of their palace, full five feet high, and behold 

eir nobles feasting adown the long perspective of the table. 
Betwixt the king and queen should sit my little Annie, the 
prettiest fairy of them all. Here stands a turbaned Turk 
threatening us with his sabre, like an ugly heathen as he is 
And next a Chinese mandarine who nods his head at Annie 


156 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and myself. Here we may review a whole army of horse 
and foot, in red and blue uniforms, with drums, fifes, 
trumpets, and all kinds of noiseless music ; they have halted 
on the shelf of this window, after their weary march from 
Liliput. But what cares Annie for soldiers? No conquering 
queen is she, neither a Semiramis nor a Catharine, her whole 
heart is set upon that doll, who gazes at us with such a fash- 
ionable stare. This is the little girl’s true plaything. Though 
made of wood, a doll is a visionary and ethereal personage, 
endowed by childish fancy with a peculiar life ; the mimic 
lady is a heroine of romance, an actor and a sufferer in a 
thousand shadowy scenes, the chief inhabitant of that wild 
world with which children ape the real one. Little Annie does 
not understand what I am saying, but looks wishfully at the 
proud lady in the window. We will invite her home with us 
as we return. Meantime, good-by, Dame Doll ! A toy your- 
self, you look forth from your window upon manj ladies 
that are also toys, though they walk and speak, and upov a 
crowd in pursuit of toys, though they wear grave visages. 
•Oh, with your never-closing eyes, ‘had you but an intellect to 
moralize on all that flits before them, what a wise doll would 
you be! Come, little Annie, we shall find toys enough, go 
where we may. 

Now we elbow our way among the throng again. It is 
curious, in the most crowded part of a town, to meet with 
living creatures that had their birthplace in some far solitude, 
but have acquired a second nature in the wilderness of men. 
Look up, Annie, at that canary-bird, hanging out of the 
window in his cage. Poor little fellow! His golden feath- 
ers are all tarnished in this smoky sunshine; he would have 
glistened twice as brightly among the summer islands; but 
still he has become a citizen in all his tastes and habits; and 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE 


157 


would not sing half so well without the uproar that drowns 
his music. What a pity that he does not know how miserable 
he is ! There is a parrot, too, calling out, “Pretty Poll ! 
Pretty Poll !” as we pass by. Foolish bird, to be talking 
about her prettiness to strangers, especially as she is not a 
pretty Poll, though gaudily dressed in green and yellow. If 
she had said, “Pretty ' Annie,” there would have been some 
sense in it. See that gray squirrel at the door of the fruit- 
shop, whirling round and round so merrily within his wire 
wheel! Being condemned to the treadmill, he makes it an 
amusement. Admirable philosophy! 

Here comes a big, rough dog, a countryman’s dog in search 
of his master; smelling at everybody’s heels, and touching 
little Annie’s hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, 
though she would fain have patted him. Success to your 
search, Fidelity ! And there sits a great yellow cat upon a 
window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat, gazing at 
this transitory world, with owl’s eyes, and making pithy 
comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast. 
Oh, sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be 
a pair of philosophers ! 

Here we see something to remind us of the town-crier, and 
his ding-dong-bell. Look ! look at that great cloth spread 
out in the air, pictured all over with wild beasts, as if they 
had met together to choose a king, according to their custom 
in the days of ^Flsop. But they are choosing neither a king 
nor a President; else we should hear a most horrible snarling! 
They have come from the deep woods, and the wild mountains, 
and the desert sands, and the polar snows, only to do homage 
to my little Annie. As we enter among them, the great ele- 
phant makes us a bow, in the best style of elephantine 
courtesy, bending lowly down his mountain bulk, with trunk 


158 


TWICE TOLD TALES 


abased, and leg thrust out behind. Annie returns the salute, 
much to the gratification of the elephant, who is certainly the 
best bred monster in the caravan. The lion and the lioness 
are busy with two beef-bones. The royal tiger, the beautiful, 
the untamable, keeps pacing his narrow cage with a haughty 
step, unmindful of the spectators, or recalling the fierce deeds 
of his former life, when he was wont to leap forth upon 
such inferior animals, from the jungles of Bengal. 

Here we see the very same v wolf, — do not go near him, 
Annie ! — the self-same wolf that devoured little Red Riding 
Hood and her grandmother. In the next cage, a hyena from 
Egypt,, who has doubtless howled around the pyramids, and a 
black bear from our own forests are fellow prisoners, and 
most excellent friends. Are there any two living creatures 
who have so few sympathies that they cannot possibly be 
friends? Here sits a great white bear, whom common ob- 
servers would call a very stupid beast, though I perceive him 
to be only absorbed in contemplation ; he is thinking of his 
voyages on an iceberg, and of his comfortable home in the 
vicinity of the north pole, and of the little cubs whom he 
left rolling in the eternal snows. In fact, he is a bear of 
sentiment. But, oh, those unsentimental monkeys ! the ugly, 
grinning, aping, chattering, ill-natured, mischievous, and 
queer little brutes. Annie does not love the monkeys. Their 
ugliness shocks her pure, instinctive delicacy of taste, and 
makes her mind unquiet, because it bears a wild and dark 
resemblance to humanity. But here is a little pony, just big 
enough for Annie to ride, and round and round he gallops 
in a circle, keeping time with his tramping hoofs to a band of 
music. And here, — with a laced coat and a cocked hat, and a 
riding-whip in his hand, here comes a little gentleman, small 
enough to be king of the fairies, and ugly enough to be king 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE 


159 


of the gnomes, and takes a flying leap into the saddle. 
Merrily, merrily, plays the music, and merrily gallops the 
pony, and merrily rides the little old gentleman. Come, 
Annie, into the street again ; perchance we may see monkeys 
on horseback there! 

Mercy on us, what a noisy world we quiet people live in? 
Did Annie ever read the cries of London city? With what 
lusty lungs doth yonder man proclaim that his wheelbarrow 
is full of lobsters? Here comes another mounted on a cart, 
and blowing a > hoarse and dreadful blast from a tin horn, as 
much as to say, “Fresh fish!” And hark! a voice on high, 
like that of a muezzin from the summit of a mosque, announc- 
ing that some chimney-sweeper has emerged from smoke and 
soot, and darksome caverns, into the upper air. What cares 
the world for that? But, well-a-day, we hear a shrill voice of 
affliction, the scream of a little child, rising louder with every 
repetition of that smart, sharp, slapping sound, produced by 
an open hand on tender flesh. Annie sympathizes, though 
without experience of such direful woe. Lo! the town-crier 
again, with some new secret for the public ear. Will he tell 
us of an auction, or of a lost pocketbook, or a show of beauti- 
ful wax figures, or of some monstrous beast more horrible 
than any in the caravan? I guess the latter. See how he 
uplifts the bell in- his right hand, and shakes it slowly at first, 
then with a hurried motion, till the clapper seem6 to strike 
both sides at once, and the sounds are scattered forth in quick 
succession, far and near. 

Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! Ding-dong ! 

Now he raises his clear, loud voice, above all the din of 
the town ; it drowns the buzzing talk of many tongues, and 
draws each man’s mind from his own business; it rolls up 
and down the echoing street and ascends to the hushed cham- 


160 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ber of the sick, and penetrates downward to the cellar 
kitchen, where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. 
Who, of all that address the public ear, whether in church, or 
court-house, or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as 
the town crier? What saith the people’s orator? 

“Strayed from her home, a little girl, of five years old, 
in a blue silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling 
hair and hazel eyes. Whoever will bring her back to her 1 
afflicted mother — ” 

Stop, stop, town crier ! The lost is found. >Oh, my pretty 
Annie, we forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she 
is in despair, and has sent the town crier to bellow up and 
down the streets, affrighting old and young, for the loss of 
a little girl who has not once let go my hand? Well, let us 
hasten home-ward; and as we go, forget not to thank Heaven, 
my Annie, that after wandering a little way into the world, 
you may return at the first summons, with an untainted and 
unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But I have 
gone too far astray for the town crier to call me back! 

Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit, 
throughout my ramble with Little Annie! Say not that it 
has been a waste of precious moments, an idle matter, a : 
babble of childish talk, and a revery of childish imagina- 
tions, about topics unworthy of a grown man’s notice. Has I 
it been merely this? Not so; not so. They are not truly | 
wise who would affirm it. As the pure breath of children 
revives the life of aged men, so is our moral nature reviveo 
by their free and simple thoughts, their native feeling, their i 
airy mirth, for little cause or none, their grief, soon roused ! 
and soon allayed. Their influence on us is at least re- j 
ciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost/ 
forgotten, and our boyhood long departed, though it seem/ 


LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE. 


161 


but as yesterday ; when life settles darkly down upon us, 
and we doubt whether to call ourselves young any more, 
then it is good to steal away from the society of bearded 
men, and even of gentler woman, and spend an hour or two 
with children. After drinking from those fountains of still 
fresh existence, we shall return into the crowd, as I do now, 
to struggle onward and do our part in life, perhaps as 
fervently as ever, but, for a time, with a kinder and purer 
heart, and a spirit more lightly wise. All this by thy 
sweet magic, dear little Annie! 


I 


WAKEFIELD 

[“Wakefield is remarkable for the skill with which an old 
idea, — a well-known incident, — is worked up or discussed. A 
man of whims conceives the purpose of quitting his wife and 
residing incognito, for twenty years, in her immediate neigh- 
borhood. The force of Hawthorne’s tale lies in the analysis 
of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband 
to such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of 
his perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power 
has been constructed.” Edgar Allan Poe.] 

In some old magazine or newspaper, I recollect a story, 
told as truth, of a man — let us call him Wakefield — who 
absented himself for a long time from his wife. The fact 
thus abstractedly stated is not very uncommon, nor — with- 
out a proper distinction of circumstances — to be condemned 
either as naughty or nonsensical. Howbeit, this, though far 
from the most aggravated, is perhaps the strangest instance on 
record of marital delinquency ; and, moreover, as remark- 
able a freak as may be found in the whole list of human 
oddities. The wedded couple lived in London. The man, 
under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings in the 
next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his 
wife or friemds, and without the shadow of a reason for 
such self-banishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years. Dur- 
ing that period, he beheld his home every day, and fre- 
quently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap 
in his matrimonial felicity — when his death was reckoned 
certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory, 
and his wife, long, long ago resigned to her autumnal 

162 


WAKEFIELD 


163 


widowhood — he entered the door one evening, quietly, as 
from a day’s absence, and became a loving spouse till death. 

This outline is all that I remember. But the incident, 
though of the purest originality, unexampled, and probably 
never to be repeated, is one, I think, which appeals to the 
generous sympathies of mankind. We know, each for him- 
self, that none of us would perpetrate such a folly, yet feel 
as if some other might. To my own contemplations, at 
least, it has often recurred, always exciting wonder, but with 
a sense that the story must be true, and a conception of its 
hero’s character. Whenever any subject so forcibly affects 
the mind, time is well spent in thinking of it. If the reader 
choose, let him do his own meditation: or if he prefer to 
ramble with me through the twenty years of Wakefield’s 
vagary, I bid him welcome; trusting that there will be a per- 
vading spirit and a moral, even should we fail to find them, 
done up neatly, and condensed into the final sentence. 
Thought has always its efficacy, and every striking incident 
its moral. 

What sort of a man was Wakefield? We are free to 
shape out our own idea, and call it by his name. He was 
now in the meridian of life ; his matrimonial affections, never 
violent, were sobered into a calm, habitual sentiment ; of all 
husbands, he was likely to be the most constant, because a 
certain sluggishness would keep his heart at rest, wherever it 
might be placed. He was intellectual, but not actively so; his 
mind occupied itself in long and lazy musings, that tended to 
no purpose, or had not vigor to attain it ; his thoughts were 
seldom so energetic as to seize hold of words. Imagination, 
in the proper meaning of the term, made no part of Wake- 
field’s gifts. With a cold but not depraved nor wandering 
heart, and a mind never feverish with riotous thoughts, nor 


164 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


perplexed with originality, who could have anticipated that 
our friend would entitle himself to a foremost place among 
the doers of eccentric deeds? Had his acquaintances been 
asked, who was the man in London, the surest to perform 
nothing today which should be remembered on the morrow, 
they would have thought of Wakefield. Only the wife of 
his bosom might have hesitated. She, without having 
analyzed his character, was partly aware of a quiet selfish- 
ness, that had rusted into his inactive mind, — of a peculiar 
sort of vanity, the most uneasy attribute about him — of a 
disposition to craft, which had seldom produced more posi- 
tive effects than the keeping of petty secrets, hardly worth 
revealing, — and, lastly, of what she called a little strange- 
ness, sometimes, in the good man. This latter quality is 
indefinable, and perhaps non-existent. 

Let us now imagine Wakefield bidding adieu to his wife. 
It is the dusk of an October evening. His equipment is a 
drab great-coat, a hat covered with an oilcloth, top-boots, an 
umbrella in one hand and a small portmanteau in the other. 
He has informed Mrs. Wakefield that he is to take the 
night-coach into' the country. She would fain inquire the 
length of his journey, its object, and the probable time of 
his return ; but, indulgent to his harmless love of mystery 4 
interrogates him only by a look. He tells her not to ex- 
pect him positively by the return coach, nor to be alarmed 
should he tarry three or four days; but, at all events, to 
look for him at supper on Friday evening. Wakefield him- 
self, be it considered, has no suspicion of what is before 
him. He holds out his hand; she gives her own, and meets 
his parting kiss, in the matter-of-course way of a ten years’ 
matrimony; and forth goes the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield, 
almost resolved to perplex his good lady, by a whole week’s 


WAKEFIELD 


165 - 

absence. After the door has closed behind him, she per- 
ceives it thrust partly open, and a vision of her husband’s 
face, through the aperture, smiling on her, and gone, in a 
moment. For the time, this little incident is dismissed without 
a thought. But, long afterwards, when she has been more 
years a widow than a wife, that smile recurs, and flickers 
across all her reminiscences of Wakefield’s visage. In her 
many musings, she surrounds the original smile with a 
multitude of fantasies, which make it strange and awful ; 
as, for instance, if she imagines him in a coffin, that parting 
look is frozen on his pale features ; or, if she dreams of hinr 
in heaven, still his blessed spirit wears a quiet and craft} 
smile. Yet, for its sake, when all others have given him 
up for dead, she sometimes doubts whether she is a widow- 
But our business is with the husband. We must hurry 
after him, along the street, ere he lose his individuality, and 
melt into the great mass of London life. It would be 
vain searching for him there. Let us follow close at his 
heels, therefore, until, after several superfluous turns and 
doublings, we find him comfortably established by the fire- 
side of a small apartment, previously bespoken. He is in the 
next street to his own, and at his journey’s end. He can 
scarcely trust his good fortune in having got thither unper- 
ceived, — recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed by 
the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern ; and, 
again, there were footsteps, that seemed to tread behind 
his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him; 
and, anon, he heard a voice shouting afar, and fancied that 
it called his name. Doubtless, a dozen busybodies had been 
watching him, and told his wife the whole affair. Poor 
Wakefield! Little knowest thou thine own insignificance in 
the great world ! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. 


1G6 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man ; and, on the morrow, 
if thou wilt be wise, get thee home to good Mrs. Wakefield, 
and tell her the truth. Remove not thyself, even for a 
little week, from thy place in her chaste bosom. Were she, 
for a single moment, to deem thee dead, or lost, or lastingly 
divided from her, thou wouldst be wofully conscious of a 
•change in thy true wife, forever after. It is perilous to make 
a chasm in human affections; not that they gape so long and 
wide — but so quickly close again ! 

Almost repenting of his frolic, or whatever it may be 
termed, Wakefield lies down betimes, and starting from his 
first nap, spreads forth his arms into the wide and solitary 
waste of the unaccustomed bed. “No,” — thinks he, gath- 
ering the bed-clothes about him, — “I will not sleep alone 
another night.” 

In the, morning, he rises earlier than usual, and sets him- 
self to consider what he really means to do. Such are his 
loose and rambling modes of thought, that he has taken this 
very singular step, with the consciousness of a purpose, in- 
deed, but without being able to define it sufficiently for his 
own contemplation. The vagueness of the project, and the 
convulsive effort with which he plunges into the execution 
of it, are equally characteristic of a feeble-minded man. 
Wakefield sifts his ideas, however, as minutely as he may, and 
finds himself curious to know the progress of matters at 
home, — how his exemplary wife will endure her widowhood 
of a week ; and, briefly, how the little sphere of creatures 
and circumstances, in which he was a central object, will be 
affected by his removal. A morbid vanity, therefore, lies 
nearest the bottom of the affair. But, how is he to attain his 
ends? Not, certainly by keeping close in this comfortable 
lodging, where, though he slept and awoke in the next 


WAKEFIELD 


167 


street to his home, he is as effectually abroad, as if the stage 
coach had been whirling him away all night. Yet, should 
he re-appear, the whole project is knocked in the head. His 
poor brains being hopelessly puzzled with this dilemma, he at 
length ventures out, partly resolving to cross the head of the 
street, and send one hasty glance towards his forsaken domi- 
cile. Habit — for he is a man of habits — takes him by the 
hand, and guides him, wholly unaware, to his own door„ 
where, just at the critical moment, he is aroused by the scrap- 
ing of his foot upon the step. Wakefield! whither are you 
going ? 

At that instant, his fate was turning on the pivot. Little 
dreaming of the doom to which his first backward step 
devotes him, he hurries away, breathless with agitation 
hitherto unfelt, and hardly dares turn his head, at the distant 
corner. Can it be that nobody caught sight of him? Will 
not the whole 'household — the decent Mrs. Wakefield, the 
smart maid-servant, and the dirty little footboy — raise a 
hue and cry, through London streets, in pursuit of their 
fugitive lord and master? Wonderful escape! He gathers, 
courage to pause and look homeward, but is perplexed with, 
a sense of change about the familiar edifice, such as affects 
us all, when, after a separation of months or years, we 
again see some hill or lake, or work of art, with which 
we were friends of old. In ordinary cases, this indescribable 
impression is caused by the comparison and contrast be- 
tween our imperfect reminiscences and the reality. In Wake- 
field, the magic of a single night has wrought a similar trans- 
formation, because, in that brief period, a great moral change 
has been effected. But this is a secret from himself. Be- 
fore leaving the spot, he catches a far and momentary glimpse 
of his wife, passing athwart the front window, with her 


L68 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


face # turned towards the head of the street. The crafty nin- 
compoop takes to his heels, scared with the idea, that, 
among a thousand such atoms of mortality, her eye must 
have detected him. Right glad is his heart, though his brain 
be somewhat dizzy, when he finds himself by the coal-fire 
of his lodgings. 

So much for the commencement of this long whimwham. 
After the initial conception, and the stirring up of the man’s I 
sluggish temperament to put it in practice, the whole matter 
evolves itself in a natural train. We may suppose him, as 
the result of deep deliberation, buying a new wig, of reddish 
hair, and selecting sundry garments, in a fashion unlike his | 
customary suit of brown, from a Jew’s old clothes-bag. It is 
accomplished. Wakefield is another man. The new system 
being now established, a retrograde movement to the old 
would be almost as difficult as the step that placed him in 
his unparalleled position. Furthermore, he is rendered obsti- 
nate by a sulkiness, occasionally incident to his temper, and 
brought on, at present, by the inadequate sehsation which he 
conceives to have been produced in the bosom of Mrs. Wake- * 
field. He will not go back until she be frightened half to i 
death. Well; twice or thrice has she passed before his sight, 1 
each time with a heavier step, a paler cheek, and more 
anxious brow ; and in the third week of his non-appearance, 
he detects a portent of evil entering- the house, in the guise 
of an apothecary. Next day, the knocker is muffled. Towards 
night-fall comes the chariot of a physician, and deposits its 
big-wigged and solemn burthen at Wakefield’s door, whence, 
after a quarter of an hour’s visit, he emerges, perchance the 
herald of a funeral. Dear woman! Will she die? By this 
time, Wakefield is excited to something like energy of feel- 
ing, but still lingers away from his wife’s bed-side, pleading 1 


WAKEFIELD 


169 


with his conscience, that she must not be disturbed at such 
a juncture. If aught else restrains him, he does not know 
it. In the course of a few weeks, . she gradually recovers ; 
the crisis is over; her heart is sad, perhaps, but quiet; and, 
let him return soon or late, it will never be feverish for him 
again. Such ideas glimmer through the mist of Wake- 
field’s mind, and render him indistinctly conscious that an 
almost impassable gulf divides his hired apartment from his 
former home. “It is but in the next street !” he sometimes 
says. Fool ! it is in another world. Hitherto, he has put off 
his return from one particular day to another ; henceforward, 
he leaves the precise time undetermined. Not to-morrow, — 
probably next week, — » pretty soon. Poor man ! The dead 
have nearly as much chance of revisiting their earthly homes, 
as the self-banished Wakefield. 

Would that I had a folio to write, instead of an article of a 
dozen pages! Then might I exemplify how an influence, 
beyond our control, lays its strong hand on every deed which 
we do, and weaves its consequences into an iron tissue of 
necessity. Wakefield is spell-bound. We must leave him, for 
ten years or so, to haunt around his house, without once 
crossing the threshold, and to be faithful to his wife, with all 
the affection of which his heart is capable, while he is 
slowly fading out of hers. Long since, it must be remarked, 
he has lost the perception of singularity in his conduct. 

Now for a scene! Amid the throng of a London street, we 
distinguish a man, now waxing elderly, with few character- 
istics to attract careless observers, yet bearing, in his whole 
aspect, the hand-writing of no common fate, for such as 
have the skill to read it. He is meagre; his low and narrow 
forehead is deeply wrinkled, his eyes small and lustre- 
less, sometimes wander apprehensively about him, but oftener 


170 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


seem to look inward. He bends his head, and moves with 
an indescribable obliquity of gait, as if unwilliag to display his 
full front to the world. Watch him, long enough to see 
what we have described, and you will allow, that circum- 
stances — which often produce remarkable men from nature’s 
ordinary handiwork — have produced one such here. Next, 
leaving him to sidle along the foot-walk, cast your eyes in 
the opposite direction, where a portly female, considerably in 
the wane of life, with a prayer-book in her hand, is pro- 
ceeding to yonder church. She has the placid mien of set- 
tled widowhood. Her regrets have either died away, or have 

I 

become so essential to her heart, that they would be poorly 
exchanged for joy. Just as the lean man and well-con- 
ditioned woman are passing, a slight obstruction occurs, 
and brings these two figures directly in contact. Their 
hands touch ; the pressure of the crowd forces her bosom 
against his shoulder ; they stand, face to face, staring into each 
other’s eyes. After a ten years’ separation, thus Wakefield 
meets his wife! 

The throng eddies away, and carries them asunder. The 
sober widow, resuming her former pace, proceeds to church, 
but pauses in the portal, and throws a perplexed glance along 
the street. She passes in, however, opening her prayer-book 
as she goes. And the man ! with so wild a face, that busy 
and selfish London stands to gaze after him, he hurries to 
his lodgings, bolts the door, and throws himself upon the 
bed. The latent feelings of years break out ; his feeble 
mind acquires a brief energy from their strength ; all the 
miserable strangeness of his life is revealed to him at a 
glance ; and he cries out, passionately, “ Wakefield ! Wake- 
field! You are mad!” 

Perhaps he was so. The singularity of his situation must 


WAKEFIELD 


171 


have so moulded him to itself, that, considered in regard 
to his fellow-creatures and the business of life, he could 
not be said to possess his right mind. He had contrived, or 
rather he had happened, to dissever himself from the 
world, — to vanish, — to give up his place and privileges with 
living men, without being admitted among the dead. The 
life of a hermit is nowise parallel to his. He was in the 
bustle of the city, as of old ; but the crowd swept by, and 
saw him not; he was, we may figuratively say, always beside 
his wife and at his hearth, yet must never feel the warmth 
of the one, nor the affection of the other. It was Wake- 
field’s unprecedented fate, to retain his original share of 
human sympathies, and to be still involved in human inter- 
ests, while he had lost his reciprocal influence on them. It 
would be a most curious speculation, to trace out the effect 
of such circumstances on his heart and intellect, separately 
and in unison. Yet, changed as he was, he would seldom be 
conscious of it, but deem himself the same man as ever, 
glimpses of the truth, indeed, would come, but only for the 
moment ; and still he would keep saying, “I shall soon go 
back !” nor reflect that he had been saying so for twenty 
years. 

I conceive, also, that these twenty years would appear, in 
the retrospect, scarcely longer than the week to which Wake- 
field had at first limited his absence. He would look on the 
affair as no more than an interlude in the main business of 
his life. When, after a little while more, he should deem it 
time to reenter his parlor, his wife would clap her hands fof 
joy, on beholding the middle-aged Mr. Wakefield. Alas, what 
a mistake! Would Time but await the close of our favorite 
follies, we should be young men, all of us, and till Doomsday. 

One evening, in the twentieth year since he vanished. 


172 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Wakefield is taking his customary walk toward the dwelling 
which he still calls his own. It is a gusty night of autumn, 
with frequent showers, that patter down upon the pavement, 
and are gone, before a man can put up his umbrella. Paus- 
ing near the house, Wakefield discerns, through the parlor- 
windows of the second floor, the red glow, and the glimmer 
and fitful flash of a comfortable fire. On the ceiling appears 
a grotesque shadow of good Mrs. Wakefield. The cap, 
the nose and chin, and the broad waist form an admirable 
caricature, which dances, moreover, with the up-flickering 
and down-sinking blaze, almost too merrily for the shade 
of an elderly widow. At this instant, a shower chances to 
fall, and is driven, by the unmannerly gust, full into Wake- 
field’s face and bosom. He is quite penetrated with its 
autumnal chill. Shall he stand, wet and shivering here, when 
his own hearth has a good fire to warm him, and his own 
wife will run to fetch the gray coat and small-clothes, which 
doubtless she has kept carefully in the closet of their bed- 
chamber? No! Wakefield is no such fool. He ascends the 
steps, — heavily ! — for twenty years have stiffened his legs, 
since he came down. — but he knows it not. Stay, Wakefield! 
Would you go to the sole home that is left you? Then step 
into your grave ! The door opens. As he passes in, we have 
a parting glimpse of his visage, and recognize the crafty 
smile, which was the precursor of the little joke that he 
has ever since been playing off at his wife’s expense. How 
unmercifully has he quizzed the poor woman ! Well, a 
good night’s rest to Wakefield ! 

This happy event — supposing it to be such — could only 
have occurred at an unpremeditated moment. We will not 
follow our friend across the threshold. He has left us much 
food for thought, a portion of which shall lend its wisdom 


WAKEFIELD 


17.1 


to a moral, and be shaped into a figure. Amid the seeming 
confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely 
adjusted to a system, and systems to one another, and to a 
whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes 
himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. Like 
Wakefield, he may become, as it were, the Outcast of the 
Universe. 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 


[In a letter from Arezzo, dated 1858, Hawthorne, referring to 
the well opposite Petrarch’s birth-house, which Boccaccio in- 
troduced into one of his stories, writes : “As I lingered 
round it I thought of my own town-pump in old Salem, and 
wondered whether my towns-people would ever point it out to 
strangers, and whether the stranger would gaze at it with any- 
degree of such interest as I felt in Boccaccio’s well. Oh, cer- 
tainly not ; but I made that humble town-pump the most cele- 
brated structure in the good town. A thousand and a thousand 
people had pumped there, merely to water oxen or to fill tea- 
kettles ; but when once I grasped the handle, a rill gushed 
forth that meandered as far as England, as far as India, be- 
sides tasting pleasantly in every town and village of our own 
country. I like to think of this, so long after I did it, and 
so far from home, and am not without hopes of some kindly 
local remembrance on this score.” Italian Note Books, May 
30th, 1858.] 

(Scene. — The corner of two principal streets .* The Town 
Pump talking through its nose.) 

Noon, by the North clock ! Noon, by the east ! High noon, 
too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall, scarcely aslope, upon 
my head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke, in the 
trough under my nose. Truly, we public characters have 
a tough time of it ! And, among all the town officers, chosen 
at March meeting, where is he that sustains, for a single 
year, the burthen of such manifold duties as are imposed, in 
perpetuity, upon the Town Pump? The title of “town 
treasurer” is rightfully mine, as guardian of the best treasure 
that the town has. The overseers of the poor ought to make 
me their chairman, since I provide bountifully for the pauper, 
without expense to him that pays taxes. I am at the head 

* Essex and Washington Streets, Salem. — [Author’s NoteJ 

174 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 


175 


of the fire department, and one of the physicians to the 
board of health. As a keeper of the peace, all water-drinkers 
will confess me equal to the constable. I perform some of 
the duties of the town clerk, by promulgating public notices, 
when they are posted on my front. To speak within bounds, 
I am the chief person of the municipality, and exhibit, more- 
over, an admirable pattern to my brother officers, by the 
cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial discharge 
of my business, and the constancy with which I stand to my 
post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain ; for, all 
day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the 
market, stretching out my arms, to rich and poor alike ; 
and at night, I hold a lantern over my head, both to show 
where I am, and keep people out of the gutters. 

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched 
populace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my 
waist. Like a dram-seller on the mall, at muster-day, I 
cry aloud to all and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the 
very tiptop of my voice. Here it is gentlemen ! Here is the 
good liquor ! Walk up, walk up, gentlemen, walk up, walk 
up! Here is the superior stuff! Here is the unadulterated 
ale of Father Adam, — better than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, 
strong beer, or wine of any price; here it is, by the hogshead, 
or the single glass, and not a cent to pay ! Walk up, gentle- 
men, walk up, and help yourselves! 

It were a pity, if all this outcry should draw no customers. 
Here they come. A hot day, gentlemen ! Quaff, and away 
again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice cool sweat. You, 
my friend, will need another cupful, to wash the dust out 
of your throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cowhide 
shoes. I see that you have trudged half a score of miles 
today; and, like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, 


176 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and stopped at the running brooks and well-curbs. Other- 
wise, betwixt heat without and fire within, you would have 
been burnt to a cinder, or melted down to nothing at all, 
in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and make room for 
that other fellow, who seeks my aid to quench the fiery 
fever of last night’s potations, which he drained from no 
cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have 
been great strangers, hitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, will 
my nose be anxious for a closer intimacy, till the fumes ot 
your breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the 
water absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is con- 
verted quite to steam, in the miniature tophet, which you 
mistake for a stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word 
of an honest toper, did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind 
of a dram-shop, spend the price of your children’s food for 
a swig half so delicious ? Now, for the first time these 
ten years, you know the flavor of cold water. Good-by ; and, 
whenever you are thirsty, remember that I keep a constant 
supply, at the old stand. Who next ..? Oh, my little friend, 
you are let loose from school, and ccme hither to scrub 
your blooming face, and drown the memory of certain taps 
of the ferule, and other schoolboy troubles, in a draught 
from the Town Pump. Take it, pure as the current of your 
young life. Take it, and may your heart and tongue never 
be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now ! There, my dear 
child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly 
gentleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving-stones, 
that I suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What ! he limps 
by, without so much as thanking me, as if my hospitable 
offers were meant only for people who have no wine-cellars. 
Well, well, sir, — no harm done, I hope! Go draw the cork, 
tip the decanter; but, when your great toe shall set you 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 


177 


a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the 
pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town Pump. 
This thirsty dog, with his red tongue lolling out, does not 
scorn my hospitality, but stands on his hind legs, and laps 
eagerly out of the trough. See how lightly he capers away 
again ! Jowler, did your worship ever have the gout ? 

Are you all satisfied ? Then wipe your mouths, my good 
friends; and while my spout has a moment’s leisure, I will 
delight the. town with a few historical reminiscences. In far 
antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, 
a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth, in the very 
spot where you now behold me, on the sunny pavement. 
The water was as bright and clear, and deemed as precious, 
as liquid diamonds. The Indian sagamores drank of it, from 
time immemorial, till the fatal deluge of the fire-water burst 
upon the red men, and swept their whole race away from 
the cold fountains. Endicott, and his followers, came next, 
and often knelt down to drink, dipping their long beards 
in the spring. The richest goblet, then, was of birch-bark. 
Governor Winthrop, after a journey afoot from Boston, drank 
here, out of the hollow of his hand. The elder Higginson here 
wet his palm, and laid it on the brow of the first town-born 
child. For many years it was the watering-place, and, as 
it were, the wash-bowl of the vicinity, — whither all decent 
folks resorted, to purify their visages, and gaze at them after- 
wards — at least, the pretty maidens did — in the mirror 
which it made. On Sabbath days, whenever a babe was to 
be baptized, the sexton filled his basin here, and placed it on 
the communion-table of the humble meeting-house, which 
partly covered the site of yonder stately brick one. Thus, one 
generation after another was consecrated to Heaven by its 
waters, and cast their waxing and waning shadows into its 


178 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


glassy bosom, and vanished from the earth, as if mortal life 
were but a flitting image in a fountain. Finally, the foun- 
tain vanished also. Cellars were dug on all sides, and cart- 
loads of gravel flung upon its source, whence oozed a turbid 
stream, forming a mud puddle, at the corner of two streets. 
In the hot months, when its refreshment was most needed, 
the dust flew in clouds over the forgotten birthplace of the 
waters, now their grave. But, in the course of time, a Town 
Pump was sunk into the source of the ancient spring; and 
when the first decayed, another took its place, — and then 
another, and still another, — till here stand I, gentlemen and 
ladies,, to serve you with my iron goblet. Drink, and be re- 
freshed ! The water is as pure and cold as that which 
slaked the thirst of the red sagamore, beneath the aged 
boughs, though now the gem of the wilderness is treasured 
under these hot stones, where no shadow falls, but from 
the brick buildings. And be it the moral of my story, that, 
as this wasted and long-lost fountain is now known and 
prized again, so shall the virtues of cold water, too little 
valued since your father’s days, be recognized by all. 

Your pardon, good people! I must interrupt my stream 
of eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water, to re- 
plenish the trough for this teamster and his two yoke of 
oxen, who have come from Topsfield, or somewhere along 
that way. No part of my business is pleasanter than the 
watering of cattle. Look ! how rapidly they lower the water- 
mark on the sides of the trough, till their capacious stomachs 
are moistened with a gallon or two apiece, and they can 
afford time to breathe it in, with signs of calm enjoyment. 
Now they roll their quiet eyes around the brim of their mon- 
strous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper. 

F’ff I perceive, my dear auditors, that you are impatient for 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 


179 


the remainder of my discourse. Impute it, I beseech you, to 
no defect of modesty, if I insist a little longer on so 
fruitful a topic as my own multifarious merits. It is alto- 
gether for your good. The better you think of me, the 
better men and women will you find yourselves. I shall 
say nothing of my all-important aid on washing days ; though, 
on that account alone, I might call myself the household god 
of a hundred families. Far be it from me also to hint, my 
respectable friends, at the show of dirty faces which you 
would present, without my pains to keep you clean. Nor 
will I remind you how often when the midnight bells make 
you tremble for your combustible town, you have fled to the 
Town Pump, and found me always at my post, firm amid the 
confusion, and ready to drain my vital current in your behalf. 
Neither is it worth while to lay much stress on my claims to a 
medical diploma, as the physician, whose simple rule of prac- 
tice is preferable to all the nauseous lore, which has found men 
sick or left them so, since the days of Hippocrates. Let us 
take a broader view of my beneficial influence on mankind. 

No; these are trifles compared with the merits which 
wise men concede to me, — if not in my single self, yet as 
the representative of a class — of being the grand reformer 
of the age. From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must 
flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast por- 
tion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the 
fiery fountains of the still. In this mighty enterprise, the 
cow shall be my great confederate. Milk and water ! The 
Town Pump and the Cow ! Such is the glorious co-partner- 
ship, that shall tear down the distilleries and brewhouses, 
uproot the vineyards, shatter the cider-presses, ruin the tea 
and coffee trade, and finally monopolize the whole business of 
quenching thirst. Blessed consummation ! Then Poverty 


180 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


shall pass away from the land, finding no hovel so wretched 
where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then Disease, for 
lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart, and die. 
Then Sin, if she do not die, shall lose half her strength. 
Until now, the phrensy of hereditary fever has raged in 
the human blood, transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled 
in every generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When 
that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion can- 
not but grow cool, and war, — the drunkenness of nations — - 
perhaps will cease. At least, there will be no war of house- 
holds. The husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful 
joy, — a calm bliss of temperate affections, — shall pass hand 
in hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its 
protracted close. To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad 
dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow 
the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall express 
what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile 
of memory and hope. 

Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an un- 
practised orator. I never conceived, till now, what toil the 
temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they 
shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Chris- 
tian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank 
you, sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been 
regenerated by my instrumentality, you will collect your use- 
less vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and make a 
bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump. And, when I shall 
have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere my 
memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, take my 
place upon this spot. Such monuments should be erected 
everywhere, and inscribed with the names of the distinguished 


A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 


181 


champions of my cause. Now listen; for something very 
important is to come next. 

There are two or three honest friends of mine — and true 
friends, I know, they are — who, nevertheless, by their fierj' 
pugnacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful hazard of a 
broken nose, or even a total overthrow upon the pavement, 
and the loss of the treasure which I guard. I pray you, 
gentlemen, let this fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, 
to get tipsy with zeal for temperance, and take up the honor- 
able cause of the Town Pump in the style of a toper, fighting 
for his brandy-bottle ? Or can the excellent qualities of cold 
water be no otherwise exemplified, than by plunging slap- 
dash into hot water, and wofully scalding yourselves and 
other people ? Trust me, they may. In the moral warfare, 
which you are to wage, — and, indeed, in the whole conduct 
of your lives, — you cannot choose a better example than my- 
self, who have never permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, 
the turbulence and manifold disquietudes of the world around 
me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which may be 
called my soul. And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to 
cool earth’s fever, or cleanse its stains. 

One o’clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, 
I may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young 
girl of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me 
to fill. May she draw a husband, while drawing her water, 
as Rachel did of old. Hold out your vessel, my dear ! There 
it is, full to the brim; so now run home, peeping at your 
sweet image in the pitcher, as you go ; and forget not, in a 
glass of my own liquor, to drink — “ Success to the Town 
Pump!" 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE* 


A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

At night-fall, once, in the olden time, on the rugged side 
of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers were 
refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruitless quest for 
the Great Carbuncle. They had come thither, not as friends, 
nor partners in the enterprise, but each, save one youthful 
pair, impelled by his own selfish and solitary 'longing for this 
wondrous gem. Their feeling of brotherhood, however, was 
strong enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in 
building a rude hut of branches, and kindling a great fire of 
shattered pines, that had drifted down the headlong current 
of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of which they were 
to pass the night. There was but one of their number, per- 
haps, who had become so estranged from natural sympathies, 
by the absorbing spell of the pursuit, as to acknowledge no 
satisfaction at the sight of human faces, in the remote and 
solitary region whither they had ascended. A vast extent 
of wilderness lay between them and the nearest seUlern- • i. 
while scant a mile above their heads, was that bleak verge, 
where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle of forest trees, 
and either robe themselves in clouds, or tower naked into the 
sky. The roar of the Amonoosuck would have been too awful 

* The Indian tradition, on which this somewhat extravagant tale is 
"founded, is both too wild and too beautiful to be adequately wrought up 
in prose. Sullivan, in his history of Maine, written since the Revolution, 
remarks, that even then, the existence of the Great Carbuncle was not 
entirely discredited. — [Author’s Note.] 

183 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


183 


for endurance, if only a solitary man had listened, while the 
mountain stream talked with the wind. 

The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greetings, 
and welcomed one another to the hut, where each plan was 
the host, and all were the guests of the whole company. They 
spread their individual supplies of food on the flat surface 
of a rock, and partook of a general repast ; at the close of 
which, a sentiment of good fellowship was perceptible among 
the party, though repressed by the idea, that the renewed 
search for the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers 
again, in the morning. Seven men and one young woman, 
they warmed themselves together at the fire, which extended 
its bright wall along the whole front of their wigwam. As 
they observed the various and contrasted figures that made 
up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature of him- 
self, in the unsteady light that flickered over him, they came 
mutually to the conclusion, that an odder society had never 
met, in city or wilderness — on mountain or plain. 

The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten man, 
some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of wild ani- 
mals. whose fashion of dress he did well to imitate, since 
the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had long been his most 
intimate companions. He was one of those ill-fated mortals, 
such as the Indians told of, whom, in their early youth, the 
Great Carbuncle smote with a peculiar madness, and became 
the passionate dream of their existence. All who visited that 
region, knew him as the Seeker, and by no other name. As 
none could remember when he first took up the search, there 
went a fable in the valley of the Saco, that for his inordinate 
lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had been condemned to 
wander among the mountains till the end of time, still with 
the same feverish hopes at sunrise — the same despair at eve. 


184 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Near this miserable Seeker, sat a little elderly personage, 
wearing a high crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. 
He was from beyond the sea, a Dr. Cacaphodel, who had 
wilted and dried himself into a mummy, by continually stoop- 
ing over charcoal furnaces and inhaling unwholesome fumes, 
during his researches in chemistry and alchemy. It was told 
of him, whether truly or not, that, at the commencement of 
his studies, he had drained his body of all its richest blood, 
and wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an unsuc- 
cessful experiment, — and had never been a well man since. 
Another of the adventurers was Master Ichabod Pigsnort, 
a weighty merchant and selectman of Boston, and an elder 
of the famous Mr. Norton’s church. His enemies had a ridic- 
ulous story, that Master Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a 
whole hour after prayer-time, every morning and evening, 
in wallowing naked among an immense quantity of pinetree 
shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of Massachu- 
setts. The fourth, whom we shall notice, had no name, that 
his companions knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a 
sneer that always contorted- his thin visage, and by a pro- 
digious pair of spectacles, which were supposed to deform 
and discolor the whole face of nature, to this gentleman’s 
perception. The fifth adventurer likewise lacked a name, which 
was the greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was a 
bright-eyed man, but wofully pined away, which was no 
more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his ordinary 
diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the densest cloud 
within his reach, sauced with moonshine whenever he could 
get it. Certain it is, that the poetry which flowed from him 
had a smack of all these dainties. The sixth of the party 
was a young man of haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart 
from the rest, wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


185 


while the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress, 
and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his sword. 
This was the Lord de Vere, who, when at home, was said 
to spend much of his time in the burial-vault of his dead 
progenitors, rummaging their mouldy coffins in search of all 
the earthly pride and vainglory that was hidden among bones 
and dust ; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected 
haughtiness of his whole line of ancestry. 

Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, and by 
his side a blooming little person, in whom a delicate shade 
of maiden reserve was just melting into the rich glow of a 
young wife's affection. Her name was Hannah, and her hus- 
band’s, Matthew ; two homely names, yet well enough adapted 
to the simple pair, who seemed strangely out of place among 
the whimsical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the 
Great Carbuncle. 

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of the 
same fire, sat this varied group of. adventurers, all so intent 
upon a single object, that, of whatever else they began to 
speak, their closing words were sure to be illuminated with the 
Great Carbuncle. Several related the circumstances that 
brought them thither. One had listened to a traveller’s tale of 
this marvelous stone, in his own distant country, and had 
immediately been seized with such a thirst for beholding it, 
as could only be quenched in its intensest lustre. Another, so 
long ago as when the famous Captain Smith visited these 
coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest in 
all the intervening years, till now that he took up the search. 
A third, being encamped on a hunting expedition, fully forty 
miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at midnight, and 
beheld the Great Carbuncle, gleaming like a meteor, so that 
the shadows of the trees fell backward from it. They spoke 


186 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


of the innumerable attempts, which had been made to reach 
the spot, and of the singular fatality which had hitherto with- 
held success from all adventurers, though it might seem so 
easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the moon, 
and almost matched the sun. It was observable that each 
smiled scornfully at the madness of every other, in anticipating 
better fortune than the past, yet nourished a scarcely hidden 
conviction, tnat he would himself be the favored one. As if 
to allay their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the Indian 
traditions, that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and be- 
wildered those who sought it, either by removing it from 
peak to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up a mist from 
the enchanted lake over which it hung. But these tales were 
deemed unworthy of credit; all professing to believe, that the 
search had been baffled by want of sagacity or perseverance 
in the adventurers, or such other causes as might naturally 
obstruct the passage to any given point, among the intricacies 
of forest, valley, and mountain. 

In a pause of the conversation, the wearer of the prodig- 
ious spectacles looked round upon the party, making each indi- 
vidual, in turn, the object of the sneer which invariably dwelt 
i;pon his countenance. 

“ So, fellow-pilgrims,” said he, “ here we are, seven wise 
men and one fair damsel, — who, doubtless, is as wise as 
my graybeard of the company: here we are, I say, all bound 
on the same goodly enterprise. Methinks now, it were not 
amiss, that each of us declare what he proposes to do with the 
Great Carbuncle, provided he have the good hap to clutch 
(t. What says our friend in the bear-skin ? How mean you, 
good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seeking, the 
Lord knows how long, among the Crystal Hills ? ” 

“How enjoy it!” exclaimed the aged Seeker, bitterly. “1 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


187 


hope for no enjoyment from it, — that folly has passed long 
ago ! I keep up the search for this accursed stone, because 
the vain ambition of my youth has become a fate upon me, 
in old age. The pursuit alone is my strength, — the energy 
of my soul, — the warmth of my blood, and the pith and mar- 
row of my bones ! Were I to turn my back upon it, I should 
fall down dead, on the hither side of the Notch, which is the 
gateway of this mountain region. Yet, not to have my wasted 
life-time back again, would I give up my hopes of the Great 
Carbuncle! Having found it, I shall bear it to a certain 
cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie 
down and die, and keep it buried with me forever.” 

“ O wretch, regardless of the interests of science ! ” cried 
Dr. Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation. “ Thou art 
not worthy to behold, even from afar off, the lustre of this 
most precious gem that ever was concocted in the laboratory 
of Nature. Mine is the sole purpose for which a wise man 
may desire the possession of the Great Carbuncle. Imme- 
diately on obtaining it — for I have a presentiment, good 
people, that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific repu- 
tation — I shall return to Europe and employ my remaining 
years in reducing it to its first elements. A portion of the 
stone will I grind to impalpable powder ; other parts shall 
be dissolved in acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so 
admirable a composition and the remainder I design to melt 
in the crucible, or set on fire with the blowpipe. By these 
various methods, I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally 
bestow the result of my labors upon the world, in a folio 
volume.” 

“ Excellent ! ” quoth the man with the spectacles. “ Nor 
need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the necessary 
destruction of the gem ; since the perusal of your folio 


188 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


teach every mother’s son of us to concoct a Great Carbuncle of 
his own.” 

“ But, verily,” said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, “ for mine own 
part I object to the making of these counterfeits, as being 
calculated to reduce the marketable value of the true gem. I 
tell ye frankly, sirs, I have an interest in keeping up the price. 
‘Here have I quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse 
in the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great hazard, 
and, furthermore, have put myself in peril of death or captivity 
by the accursed heathen savages. — and all this without daring 
to ask the prayers of the congregation, because the quest for 
the Great Carbuncle is deemed little better than a traffic with 
the evil one. Now think ye that I would have done this 
grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and estate, with- 
out a reasonable chance of profit?” 

“ Not I, pious Master "Pigsnort,” said the man with the 
spectacles. “ I never laid such a great folly to thy charge.” 

“Truly, I hope not,” said the merchant. “ Now, as touching 
this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I have never had 
a glimpse of it; but be it only the hundredth part so bright as 
people tell, it will surely outvalue the Great Mogul’s best dia- 
mond, which he holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore I 
am minded to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard, and voy- f 
age with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or into Heathen- j 
dom, if Providence should send me thither, and, in a word, dis- 
pose of the gem to the best bidder among the potentates of the ! 
earth, that he may place it among his crown jewels. If any of 
ye have a wiser plan, let him expound it.” 

“ That have I, thou sordid man ! ” exclaimed the poet. 
“Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, that thou 
wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre into such dross, as 
thou wallowest in already? For myself, hiding the jewel 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


189 


under my cloak, I shall hie me back to my attick chamber, 
in one of the darksome alleys of London. There, night 
and day, will I gaze upon it — my soul shall drink its radiance, 
— it shall be diffused throughout my intellectual powers, and 
gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. Thus, long 
ages after I am gone, the splendor of the Great Carbuncle 
will blaze around my name ! ” 

“ Well said, Master Poet ! ” cried he of the spectacles. 
“ Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou ? Why, it will gleam 
through the holes, and make thee look like a jack-o’-lan- 
tern ! ” 

“To think! ” ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather to himself 
than his companions, the best of whom he held utterly un- 
worthy of his intercourse, — “to think that a fellow in a 
tattered cloak should talk of conveying the Great Carbuncle to 
a garret in Grubb street ! Have not I resolved within myself, 
that the whole earth contains no fitter ornament for the 
great hall of my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for 
ages, making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits of 
armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang around the 
wall, and keeping bright the memory of heroes. Wherefore 
have all other adventurers sought the prize in vain, but that 
I might win it, and make it a symbol of the glories of our 
lofty line ? And never, on the diadem of the White Moun- 
tains, did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half so honored 
as is reserved for it in the hall of the De Veres! ” 

“ It is a noble thought,” said the Cynic, with an obsequious 
sneer. “ Yet, might I presume to say so, the gem would 
make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would display the glories 
of your lordship’s progenitors more truly in the ancestral 
vault than in the castle hall.” 

“ Nay, forsooth,” observed Matthew, the young rustic, who 


190 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sat hand in hand with his bride, “ the gentleman has bethought 
himself of a profitable use for this bright stone. Hannah 
here and I are seeking it for a like purpose.” 

“ How, fellow ! ” exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. 
“ What castle hall hast thou to hang it in ? ” 

“ No castle,” replied Matthew, “ but as neat a cottage as any 
within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye must know, friends, that 
Hannah and I, being wedded the last week, have taken up the 
search of the Great Carbuncle, because we shall need its light 
in the long winter evenings; and it will be such a pretty 
thing to show the neighbors when they visit us. It will shine 
through the house, so that we tnay pick upi a pin in any corner, 
and will set all the windows a-glowing, as if there were a 
great fire of pine-knots in the chimney. And then, how pleas- 
ant, when we awake in the night, to be able to see one an- 
other’s faces ! ” 

There was a general smile among the adventurers at the 
simplicity of the young couple’s project, in regard to this won- 
drous and invaluable stone, with which the greatest monarch 
on earth might have been proud to adorn his palace. Espe- 
cially the man with spectacles, who had sneered at all the 
company in turn, now twisted his visage into such an expres- 
sion of ill-natured mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather 
peevishly, what he himself meant to do with the Great Car- 
buncle. 

“The Great Carbuncle!” answered the Cynic, with ineffa- 
ble scorn. “ Why, you blockhead, there is no such thing, in 
rerum natura. I have come three thousand miles, and am 
resolved to set my foot on every peak of these mountains, and 
poke my head into every chasm, for the sole purpose of dem- 
onstrating to the satisfaction of any man, one whit less an 
ass than myself, that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug ! ” 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


191 


Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought most of 
the adventurers to the Crystal Hills, but none so vain, so fool- 
ish. and so impious too, as that of the scoffer with the prodig- 
ious spectacles. He was one of those wretched and evil men,., 
whose yearnings are downward to the darkness, instead of 
Heavenward, and who, could they but extinguish the lights 
which God hath kindled for us, would count the midnight 
gloom their chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, several of 
the party were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that 
showed the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains, and the 
rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river, with an illumination 
unlike that of their fire, on the trunks and black boughs of 
the forest trees. They listened for the roll of thunder, but 
heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest came not near 
them. The stars, those dial-points of heaven, now warned the 
adventurers to close their 'eyes on the blazing logs/ and open 
them, in dreams, to the glow of the Great Carbuncle. 

The young married couple had taken their lodgings in the 
farthest corner of the wigwam, and were separated from the 
rest of the party by a curtain of curiously woven twigs, such 
as might have hung, in deep festoons, around the bridal bower 
of Eve. The modest little wife had wrought this piece of 
tapestry, while the other guests were talking. She and her 
husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and awoke,, 
from visions of unearthly radiance, to meet the more blessed 
light of one another’s eyes. They awoke at the same instant, 
and with one happy smile beaming over their two faces, which 
grew brighter with their consciousness of the reality of life 
and love. But no sooner did she recollect where they were, 
than the bride peeped through the interstices of the leafy cur- 
tain, and saw that the outer room of the hut was deserted. 

“ Up, dear Matthew ! ” cried she in haste. “ The strange 


192 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


folk are all gone ! Up, this very minute, or we shall lose the 
Great Carbuncle ! ” 

In truth, so little did these poor young people deserve the 
mighty prize which had lured them thither, that they had slept 
peacefully all night, and till the summits of the hills were glit- 
tering with sunshine: while the other adventurers had tossed 
their -limbs in feverish wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing 
precipices, and set off to realize their dreams with the earliest 
peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah, after their calm rest, 
were as light as two young deer, and merely stopped to say 
their prayers, and wash themselves in a cool pool of the 
Amonoosuck, and then to taste a morsel of food ere they 
turned their faces to the mountain-side. It was a sweet 
-emblem of conjugal affection, as they toiled up the difficult 
ascent, gathering strength from the mutual aid which they 
afforded. After several little accidents, such as a torn robe, 
a lost shoe, and the entanglement of Hannah’s hair in a bough, 
they reached the upper verge of the forest, and were now to 
pursue a more adventurous course. The innumerable trunks 
and heavy foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their 
thoughts, which now shrank affrighted from the region of 
wind, and cloud, and naked rocks, and desolate sunshine, 
that rose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at the 
obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and longed to 
“be buried again in its depths, rather than trust themselves to 
so vast and visible a solitude. 

“ Shall we go on ? ” said Matthew, throwing his arm round 
Hannah’s waist, both to protect her, and to comfort his heart 
hy drawing her close to it. 

But the little bride, simple as she was, had a woman’s love 
of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possessing the very 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


193 


brightest in the world, in spite of the perils with which it 
must be won. 

“ Let us climb a little higher,” whispered she, yet tremu- 
lously, as she turned her face upward to the lonely sky. 

“ Come, then,” said Matthew, mustering his manly courage, 
and drawing her along with him ; for she became timid again, 
the moment that he grew bold. 

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the Great 
Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and thickly interwoven 
branches of dwarf pines, which, by the growth of centuries, 
though mossy with age, had barely reached three feet in alti- 
tude. Next, they came to masses and fragments of naked rock, 
heaped confusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants, in 
memory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of upper air, 
nothing breathed, nothing grew ; there was no life but what 
was concentrated in their two hearts; they had climbed so high, 
that Nature herself seemed no longer^ to keep them company. 
She lingered beneath them, within the verge of the forest trees, 
and sent a farewell glance after her children, as they strayed 
where her own green footprints had never been. But soon 
they were to be hidden from her eye. Densely and dark, 
the mists began to gather below, casting black spots of shadow 
on the vast landscape, and sailing heavily to one centre, as 
if the loftiest mountain peak had summoned a council of its 
kindred clouds. Finally, the vapors welded themselves, as it 
were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement 
over which the wanderers might have trodden, but where 
they would vainly have sought an avenue to the blessed earth 
which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to behold the 
green earth again, more intensely, alas ! than, beneath a clouded 
sky, they had ever desired a glimpse of heaven. They even 
felt it a relief to their desolation when the mists creeping grad- 


194 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


nally up the mountain concealed its lonely peak and thus 
annihilated at least for them the whole region of visible space. 
But they drew closer together with a fond and melancholy 
gaze dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch them from 
each other’s sight. 

Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to climb as 
far and as high, between earth and heaven, as they could 
find foot-hold, if Hannah’s strength had not begun to fail, and 
with that, her courage also. Her breath grew short. She 
refused to burthen her husband with her weight, but often 
tottered against his side, and reco\ered herself each time by 
a feebler effort. At last she sank down on one of the rocky 
steps of the acclivity. 

“ We are lost, dear Matthew,” said she, mournfully. “ We 
shall never find our way to the earth again. And oh, how 
happy we might have been in our cottage ! ” 

“Dear heart! — we will yet be happy there,” answered 
Matthew. “ Look ! ” In this direction, the sunshine penetrates 
the dismal mist. By its aid I can direct our course to the 
passage of the Notch. Let us go back, love, and dream no 
more of the Great Carbuncle ! ” 

“ The sun cannot be yonder,” said Hannah, with de- 
spondence. “By this time, it must be noon. If there could 
ever be any sunshine here, it would come from above our 
heads. 

“ But look ! ” repeated Matthew, in a somewhat altered tone. 
“It is brightening every moment. If not sunshine, what can 
it be ? ” 

Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a radiance 
was breaking through the mist, and changing its dim hue to a 
dusky red,' which continually grew more vivid, as if brilliant 
particles were interfused with the gloom. Now, also the cloud 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


195 - 


began to roll away from the mountain, while, as it heaviiy 
withdrew one object after another started out of its impene- 
trable obscurity into sight with precisely the effect of a new* 
creation, before the indistinctness of the old chaos had been- 
completely swallowed up. As the process went on, they saw 
the gleaming of water close at their feet, and found themselves 
on the very border of a mountain lake, deep, bright, clear, and. 
calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a basin- 
that had been scooped out of the solid rock. A ray of glory 
flashed across its surface. The pilgrims looked whence it 
should proceed, but closed their eyes with a thrill of awful 
admiration, to exclude the fervid splendor that glowed from 
the brow of a cliff, impending over the enchanted lake. For 
the simple pair had reached that lake of mystery, and found 
the long-sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle! 

They threw their arms around each other, and trembled 
at their own success; for as the legends of this wondrous 
gem rushed thick upon their memory, they felt themselves 
marked out by fate, — and the consciousness was fearful. 
Often from childhood upward, they had seen it shining like a 
distant star. And now that star was throwing its intensest 
lustre on their hearts. They seemed changed to one another’s- 
eyes, in the red brilliancy that flamed upon their cheeks* 
while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and 
to the mists which had rolled back before its power. But,, 
with their next glance they beheld an object that drew their 
attention even from the mighty stone. At the base of the 
cliff, directly beneath the Great Carbuncle, appeared the 
figure of a man, with his arms extended in the act of climb- 
ing, and his face turned upward, as if to drink the full gush 
of splendor. But he stirred not, no more than if changed to 
marble. 


196 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ It is the Seeker,” whispered Hannah, convulsively grasp- 
ing her husband’s arm. “ Matthew, he is dead.” 

“The joy of success has killed him,” replied Matthew, 
trembling violently. “ Or, perhaps the very light of the Great 
Carbuncle was death ! ” 

“ The Great Carbuncle,” cried a peevish voice behind them. 
■“The Great Humbug! If you have found it, prithee point 
it out to me.” 7 

They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, with 
his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his nose, staring now 
at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the distant masses of 
vapor, now right at the Great Carbuncle itself, yet seemingly 
as unconscious of its light, as if all the scattered clouds 'were 
condensed about his person. Though its radiance actually 
threw the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet as he 
turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not be con- 
vinced that there was the least glimmer there. 

“ Where is your Great Humbug ? ” he repeated. “ I chal- 
Jenge you to make me see it ! ” 

“ There,” said Matthew, incensed at such perverse blindness, 
and turning the Cynic round towards the illuminated cliff. 
“ Take off those abominable spectacles, and you cannot help 
seeing it ! ” 

Now, these colored spectacles probably darkened the Cynic’s 
sight, in at least as great a degree as the smoked glasses 
through which people gaze at an eclipse. With resolute bra- 
vado, however, he snatched them from his nose, and fixed a 
bold stare full upon the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. 
But scarcely had he encountered it, when, with a deep, shud- 
dering groan, he dropt his head, and pressed both hands 
across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth, there was, in /ery 
truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any other light 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


19 ? 


on earth, nor light of Heaven itself, for the poor Cynic. So 
long accustomed to view all objects through a medium that 
deprived them of every glimpse of brightness, a single flash 
of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked vision, 
had blinded him forever. 

“ Matthew,” said Hannah, clinging to him, “ let us go 
hence ! ” 

Matthew saw that she was faint, and, kneeling down, sup- 
ported her in his arms, while he threw some of the thrillingly- 
cold water of the enchanted lake upon her face and bosom. 
It revived her, but could not renovate her courage. 

“ Yes, dearest! ” cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous- form 
to his breast, “ we will go hence, and return to our humble 
cottage. The blessed sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall 
come through our window. We will kindle the cheerful 
glow of our hearth at eventide, and be happy in its light. 
But never again will we desire more light than all the 
world may share with us.” 

“ No,” said his bride, “ for how could we live by day, 
or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the Great Carbuncle ! ” 

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a draught 
from the lake, which presented them its waters uncontaminated 
by an earthly lip. Then, lending their guidance to the 
blinded Cynic, who uttered not a word, and even stifled his 
groans in his own most wretched heart, they began to de- 
scend the mountain. Yet, as they left the shore, till then 
untrodden, of the Spirit’s lake, they threw a farewell glance 
towards the cliff and beheld the vapors gathering in dense 
volumes, through which the gem burned duskily. 

As touching the other pilgrims of the great Carbuncle, the 
legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful Master Ichabod 
Pigsnort soon gave up the quest, as a desperate speculation, 


198 


TWICE- TOLD TALES 


and wisely resolved to betake himself again to his warehouse, 
near the town-dock, in Boston. But, as he passed through 
the Notch of the mountains, a war party of Indians captured 
-our unlucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there 
holding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a heavy ran- 
som, he had wofully subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree 
shillings. By his long absence, moreover, his affairs had 
become so disordered, that, for the rest of his life, instead 
of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence-worth of 
copper. Dr. Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his labor- 
atory with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he ground 
to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the crucible, and 
burned with the blowpipe, and published the result of his 
■experiments in one of the heaviest folios of the day. And for 
all these purposes, the gem itself could not have answered 
better than the granite. The poet, by a somewhat similar mis- 
take, made prize of a great piece of ice, which he found in 
a sunless chasm of the mountains, and swore that it cor- 
responded, in all points, with his idea of the Great Carbuncle. 
The critics say, that, *if his poetry lacked the splendor of the 
gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. The Lord de Vere 
went back to his ancestral hall, where he contented himself 
with a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled, in due course of 
time, another coffin in the ancestral vault. As the funeral, 
torches gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no 
need of the Great Carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly 
pomp. 

The Cynic, having ca^st aside his spectacles, wandered about 
the world, a miserable object, and was punished with an 
igonizing desire of light, for the wilful blindness of his 
former life. The whole night long he would lift his splen- 
dor-blasted orbs to the moon and stars; he turned his face 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


199 


eastward, at sunrise, as duly as a Persian idolater; he made 
a pilgrimage to Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination 
of St. Peter’s church ; and finally perished in the great fire 
of London, into the midst of which he had thrust himself, 
with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray from the 
blaze, that was kindling earth and heaven. 

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, and 
were fond of telling the legend of the Great Carbuncle. The 
tale, however, towards the close of their lengthened lives, did 
not meet with the full credence that had been accorded to it 
by those who remembered the ancient lustre of the gem. For 
it is affirmed, that, from the hour when two mortals had 
shown themselves so simply wise as to reject a jewel which 
would have dimmed all earthly things, its splendor waned. 
When other pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an 
opaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its surface. 
There is also a tradition that, as the youthful pair departed, 
the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff, and fell 
into the enchanted lake, and that, at noontide, the Seeker’s 
form may still be seen to bend over its quenchless gleam. 

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing, as of 
old, and say that they have caught its radiance, like a flash of 
summer lightning, far down the valley of the Saco. And be it 
owned that, many a mile from the Crystal Hills I saw a won- 
drous light around their summits, and was lured, by the faith 
of poesy, to be the latest piigrim of the Great Carbuncle. 




THE PROPHETIC PICTURES.* 

“But this painter!” cried Walter Ludlow, with animation. 

“ He not only excels in his peculiar art, but possesses vast 
acquirements in all other learning and science. He talks 
Hebrew with Dr. Mather, and gives lectures in anatomy to 
Dr. Boylston. In a word, he will meet the best instructed 
man among us, on his own ground. Moreover, he is a pol- 
ished gentleman, — a citizen of the world, — yes, a true cos- 
mopolite ; for he will speak like a native of each clime and 
country on the globe, except our own forests, whither he is 
now going. Nor is all this what I most admire in him.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Elinor, who had listened with a woman’s 
interest to the description of such a man. “ Yet this is ad- 
mirable enough.’ 

“ Surely it is,” replied her lover, “ but far less so than 
his natural gift of adapting himself to every variety of char- 
acter, insomuch that all men — and all women, too, Elinor — 
shall find a .mirror of themselves in this wonderful painter. 
But the greatest wonder is yet to be told.” 

“ Nay, if he have more wonderful attributes than these,” 
said Elinor laughing. Boston is a perilous abode for the 
poor gentleman. Are you telling me of a painter, or a 
wizard ? ” 

“ In truth,” answered he, “ that question might be asked 
much more seriously than you suppose. They say that he 

* This story was suggested by an anecdote of Stuart, related in Dun- 
lap’s History of the Arts of Design. — a most entertaining book to the 
general reader, and a deeply interesting one, we should think, to the 
artist. — [Author’s Note.] 


200 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


201 


paints not merely a man’s features, but his mind and heart. 
He catches the secret sentiments and passions, and throws 
them upon the canvas, like sunshine, — or perhaps, in the 
portraits of dark-souled men, like a gleam of infernal fire. 

It is an awful gift,” added Walter, lowering his voice from 
its tone of enthusiasm. “ I shall be almost afraid to sit to 
him.” 

“Walter, are you in earnest?” exclaimed Elinor. 

“ For heaven’s sake, dearest Elinor, do not let him paint 
the look which you now wear,’ said her lover, smiling, though 
rather perplexed. “There: it is passing away now, but when - 
you spoke, you seemed frightened to death, and very sad be- 
sides. What were you thinking of?” 

“ Nothing, nothing,” answered Elinor, hastily. “ You paint 
my face with your own fantasies. Well, come for me to- 
morrow, and we will visit this wonderful artist.” 

But when the young man 'had departed, it cannot be de- 
nied that a remarkable expression was again visible on the 
fair and youthful face of his mistress. It was a sad and 
anxious look, little in accordance with what should have 
been the feelings of a maiden on the eve of wedlock. Yet 
Walter Ludlow was the chosen of her heart. 

“A look!” said Elinor to herself. “No wonder that it 
startled him, if it expressed what I sometimes feel. I know, 
by my own experience, how frightful a look may be. But 
it was all fancy. I thought nothing of it at the time, — I 
have seen nothing of it since, — I did but dream it.” 

And she busied herself about the embroidery of a ruff, in 
which she meant that her portrait should be taken. 

The painter, of whom they had been speaking, was not 
one of those native artists, who, at a later period than this, 
borrowed their colors from the Indians, and manufactured 


202 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


their pencils of the furs of wild beasts. Perhaps, if he could 
have revoked his life and pre-arranged his destiny, he might 
have chosen to belong to that school without a master, in the 
hope of being at least original, since there were no works of 
art to imitate, nor rules to follow. But he had been born 
and educated in Europe. People said, that he had studied 
the grandeur or beauty of conception, and every touch of the 
master-hand, in all the most famous pictures, in cabinets and 
galleries, and on the walls of churches, till there, was nothing 
more for his powerful mind to learn. Art could add nothing 
to its lessons, but Nature might. He had therefore visited a 
world, whither none of his professional brethren had pre- 
ceded him, to feast his eyes on visible images, that were 
noble and picturesque, yet had never been transferred to 
canvas. America was too poor to afford other temptations 
to an artist of eminence, though many of the colonial gentry, 
on the painter's arrival, had expressed a wish to transmit their 
lineaments to posterity, by means of his skill. Whenever such 
proposals were made, he fixed his piercing eyes on the appli- 
cant, and seemed to look him through and through. If he 
beheld only a sleek and comfortable visage, though there 
were a gold-laced coat to adorn the picture, and golden 
guineas to pay for it, he civilly rejected the task and the re- 
ward. But if the face were the index of anything uncom- 
mon, in thought, sentiment, or experience ; or if he met a 
beggar in the street, with a white beard and a furrowed 
brow; or if sometimes a child happened to look up and smile; 
lie would exhaust all the art on them, that he denied to 
wealth. 

Pictorial skill being so rare in the colonies, the painter be- 
came an object of general curiosity. If few or none could 
appreciate the technical merit of his productions, yet there 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


203 


were points in regard to which the opinion of the crowd 
was as valuable as the refined judgment of the amateur. He 
watched the effect that each picture produced on such un- 
tutored beholders, and derived profit from their remarks, 
while they would as soon have thought of instructing Nature 
herself, as him who seemed to rival her. Their admiration, 
it must be owned, was tinctured with the prejudices of the 
age and country. Some deemed it an offence against the 
Mosaic law, and even a presumptuous mockery of the Creator, 
to bring into existence such lively images of his creatures. 
Others, frightened at the art which could raise phantoms at 
will, and keep the form of the dead among the living, were 
inclined to consider the painter as a magician, or perhaps 
the famous Black Man, of old witch-times, plotting mischief 
in a new guise. These foolish fancies were more than, half 
believed among the mob. Even in superior circles, his char- 
acter was invested with a vague awe, partly rising like smoke- 
wreaths from the popular superstitions, but chiefly caused by 
the varied knowledge and talefits which he made subservient 
to his profession. 

Being on the eve of marriage Walter Ludlow and Elinor 
were eager to obtain their portraits, as the first of what, 
they doubtless hoped, Would be a long series of family pic- 
tures. The day after the conversation above recorded, they 
visited the painter’s rooms. A servant ushered them into an 
apartment, where, though the artist himself was not visible, 
there were personages whom they could hardly forbear greet- 
ing with reverence. They knew, indeed, that the whole as- 
sembly were but pictures, yet felt it impossible to separate the 
idea of life and intellect from such striking counterfeits. 
Several of the portraits were known to them, either as dis- 
tinguished characters of the day, or their private acquaintances. 


204 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


There was Governor Burnett, looking as if he had just received 
an undutiful communication from the House of Representa- 
tives, and were inditing a most sharp response. Mr. Cooke 
hung beside the ruler whom he opposed, sturdy, and some- 
what puritanical, as befitted a popular leader. The ancient 
lady of Sir William Phipps eyed them from the wall, in ruff 
and farthingale, an imperious old dame, not unsuspected of 
witchcraft. John Winslow, then a very young man, wore the ex- 
pression of warlike enterprise, which long afterwards made 
him a distinguished general. Their personal friends were 
recognized at a glance. In most of the pictures, the whole 
mind and character were brought out on the countenance, and 
concentrated into a single look, so that, to speak paradoxically, 
the originals hardly resembled themselves so strikingly as the 
portraits did. 

Among these modern worthies, there were two old bearded 
Saints, who had almost vanished into the darkening canvas. 
There was also a pale, but unfaded Madonna, who had 'perhaps 
been worshiped in Rome, and now regarded the lovers with 
such a mild and holy look, that they longed to worship too. 

“ How singular a thought,” observed Walter Ludlow, “ that 
this beautiful face has been beautiful for above two hundred 
years ! Oh, if all beauty would endure so well ! Do you not 
envy her, Elinor ? ” 

“ If earth were Heaven, I might,” she replied. “ But where 
all things fade, how miserable to be the one that could not 
fade ! ” 

“ This dark old St. Peter has a fierce and ugly scowl, saint 
though he be,” continued Walter. “ He troubles me. But 
the virgin looks kindly at us.” 

“ Yes : but very sorrowfully, methinks,” said Elinor. The 
easel stood beneath these three old pictures, sustaining one 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


205 


that had been recently commenced. After a little inspection, 
they began to recognise the features of their own minister, 
the Rev. Dr. Colman, growing into shape and life, as it were, 
out ot a cloud. 

“ Kind old man ! ” exclaimed Elinor. “ He gazes at me, as 
if he were about, to utter a word of paternal advice.” 

“ And at me,” said Walter, “ as if he were about to shake 
his head and rebuke me Jor some suspected iniquity. But so 
does the original. I shall never feel quite comfortable under 
his eye, till we stand before him to be married.” 

They now heard a footstep on tjie floor, and turning, beheld 
the painter, who had been some moments in the room, and 
had listened to a few of their remarks. He was a middle-aged 
man, with a countenance well worthy of his own pencil. In- 
deed, by the picturesque, though careless arrangement of his 
rich dress, and, perhaps, because his soul dwelt always among 
painted shapes he looked somewhat like a portrait himself. 
His visitors were sensible of a kindred between the artist and 
his works, and felt as if one of the pictures had stept from 
the canvas to salute them. 

Walter Ludlow, who was slightly known to the painter, 
explained the object of their visit. While he spoke, a sun- 
beam was falling athwart his figure and Elinor’s, with so 
happy an effect, that they also seemed living pictures of youth 
and beauty, gladdened by bright fortune. The artist was 
evidently struck. 

“ My easel is occupied for several ensuing days, and my stay 
in Boston must be brief,” said he, thoughtfully ; then, after an 
observant glance, he. added, “but your wishes shall be grati- 
fied, though I disappoint the Chief Justice and Madam Oliver. 
I must not lose this opportunity, for the sake of painting a few 
elis of broadcloth and brocade.” 


206 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


The painter expressed a desire to introduce both their 
portraits into one picture, and represent them engaged in some 
appropriate action. This plan would have delighted the lovers, 
but was necessarily rejected, because so large a space of 
canvas would have been unfit for the room which it was in- 
tended to decorate. Two half-length portraits were therefore 
fixed upon. After they had taken leave, Walter Ludlow asked 
Elinor, with a smile, whether she knew what an influence 
over their fates the painter was about to acquire. 

“The old women of Boston' affirm,” continued he, “that 
after he has once got possession of a person’s face and figure, 
he may paint him in any act or situation whatever, — and the 
picture will be prophetic. Do you believe it ? ” 

“Not quite,” said Elinor, smiling. “Yet if he has such 
magic, there is something so gentle in his manner, that I am 
sure he will use it well.” 

It was the painter’s choice to proceed with both the portraits 
at the same time, assigning as a reason, in the mystical lan- 
guage which he sometimes used, that the faces threw light 
upon each other. Accordingly, he gave now a touch to Walter, 
and now to Elinor, and the features of one and the other 
began to start forth so vividly, that it appeared as if his 
triumphant art would actually disengage them from the 
canvas. Amid the rich light and deep shade, they beheld their 
phantom selves. But, though the likeness promised to be 
perfect, they were not quite satisfied with the expression ; it 
seemed more vague than in most of the painter’s works. He, 
however, was satisfied with the prospect of success, and being 
much interested in the lovers, employed his leisure moments, 
unknown to them, in making a crayon sketch of their two 
figures. During their sittings, he engaged them in conversa- 
tion, and kindled up their faces with characteristic traits,' 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


207 


which, though continually varying, it was his purpose to com- 
bine and fix. At length he announced, that at their next visit 
both the portraits would be ready for delivery. 

“ If my pencil will but be true to my conception, in the 
few last touches which I meditate,” observed he, “ these two 
pictures will be my very best performances. Seldom, indeed, 
has an artist such subjects.” 

While speaxing, he still bent his penetrative eye upon them, 
nor withdrew it till they had reached the bottom of the 
stairs. 

Nothing, in the whole circle of human vanities, takes 
stronger hold of the imagination, than this affair of having 
a portrait painted. Yet why should it be so? The looking- 
glass, the polished globes of the andirons, the mirror-like 
water, and all other reflecting surfaces, continually present us 
with portraits, or rather ghosts, of our selves, which we 
glance at, and straightway forget them. But we forget them, 
only because they vanish. It is the idea of duration — of 
earthly immortality — that gives such a mysterious interest 
to our own portraits. Walter and Elinor were not insensible 
to this feeling, and hastened to the painter’s room, punctually 
at the appointed hour, to meet those pictured shapes, which 
were to be their representatives with posterity. The sunshine 
flashed after them into the apartment, but left it somewhat 
gloomy, as they closed the door. 

Their eyes were immediately attracted to their portraits, 
which rested against the farthest wall of the room. At the 
first glance, through the dim light and the distance, seeing 
themselves in precisely their natural attitudes, and with all 
the air that they recognized so well, they uttered a simultane- 
ous exclamation of delight. 

“ There we stand,” cried Walter, enthusiastically, “ fixed in 


208 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sunshine forever S No dark passions can gather on our 
faces !” 

“No,” said Elinor, more calmly; “no dreary change can 
sadden us.” 

This was said while they were approaching, and had yet 
gained only an imperfect view of the pictures. The painter, 
after saluting them, busied himself at a table in completing a 
crayon sketch, leaving his visitors to form their own judgment 
as to his perfected labors. At intervals, he sent a glance from 
beneath his deep eyebrows, watching their countenances in 
profile, with his pencil suspended over the sketch. They had 
now stood some moments, each in front of the other’s picture, 
contemplating it with entranced attention, but without uttering 
a word. At length, Walter stepped forward, — then back, — 
viewing Elinor’s portrait in various lights, and finally spoke. 

“Is there not a change?” said he, in a doubtful and 
meditative tone. “Yes; the perception of it grows more vivid, 
the longer I look. It is, certainly the same picture that I saw 
yesterday ; the dress, — the features, — all are the same ; and 
yet something is altered.” 

“Is then the picture less like than it was yesterday?” 
inquired the painter, now drawing near, with irrepressible in- 
terest. 

“The features are perfect, Elinor,” answered Walter, “and, 
at the first glance, the expression seemed also hers. But, I 
could fancy that the portrait has changed countenance, while I 
have been looking at it. The eyes are fixed on mine with a 
strangely sad and anxious expression. Nay, it is grief and 
terror! Is this like Elinor? ” 

“ Compare the living face with the pictured one,” said the 
painter. 

Walter glanced sidelong at his mistress, and started. Mo- 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


209 


tionless and absorbed — fascinated as it were — in contempla- 
tion of Walter’s portrait, Elinor’s face had assumed precisely 
the expression of which he had just been complaining. Had 
she practiced for whole hours before a mirror, she could not 
have caught the look so successfully. Had the picture itself 
been a mirror, it could not have thrown back her present 
aspect, with stronger and more melancholy truth. She ap- 
peared quite unconscious of the dialogue between the artist and 
her lover. 

“ Elinor,” exclaimed Walter, in amazement, “ what change 
has come over you ? ” 

She did not hear him, nor desist from her fixed gaze, 
till he seized her hand, and thus attracted her notice; then, 
with a sudden tremor, she looked from the picture to the face 
of the original. 

“ Do you see no change in your portrait ? ” asked she. 

“In mine? — None!” replied Walter examining it. “But 
let me see! Yes; there is a slight change, — an improvement, 
I think, in the picture, though none in the likeness. It has a 
livelier expression than yesterday, as if some bright thought 
were flashing from the eyes, and about to be uttered from the 
lips. Now that I have caught the look, it becomes very de- 
cided.” 

While he was intent on these observations, Elinor turned 
to the painter. She regarded him with grief and awe, and felt 
that he repaid her with sympathy and commiseration, though 
wherefore she could but vaguely guess. 

“That look!” whispered she, and shuddered. “How came 
it there? ” 

“ Madam,” said the painter, sadly, taking her hand, and lead- 
ing her apart, “ in both these pictures. I have painted what I 
saw. The artist — the true artist — must look beneath the 


210 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


exterior. It is his gift — his proudest but often a melancholy 
one — to see the inmost soul, and by a power indefinable even 
to himself to make it glow or darken upon the canvas, in 
glances that express the thought and sentiment of years. 
Would that I might convince myself of error in the present 
instance ! ” 

They had now approached the table, on which were heads in 
chalk, hands almost as expressive as ordinary faces, ivied 
church-towers, thatched cottages, old thunder-stricken trees, 
oriental and antique costume, and all such picturesque vagaries 
of an artist’s idle moments. Turning them over, with seeming 
carelessness, a crayon sketch of two figures was disclosed. 

“ If I have failed,” continued he, “ if your heart does not see 
itself reflected ; n your own portrait, if you have no secret 
cause to trust my delineation of the other, it is not yet too late 
to alter them. I might change the action of these figures too. 
But would it influence the event?” 

He directed her notice to the sketch. A thrill ran through 
Elinor’s frame ; a shriek was upon her lips ; but she stifled it, 
with the self-command that becomes habitual to all, who hide 
thoughts of fear and anguish within their bosoms. Turning 
from the table, she perceived that Walter had advanced near 
enough to have seen the sketch, though she could not deter- 
mine whether it had caught his eye. 

“ We will not have the pictures altered.” said she, hastily. 
“ If mine is sad, I shall but look the gayer for the contrast.” 

“ Be it so,” answered the painter, bowing. “ May your 
griefs be such fanciful ones, that only your picture may mourn 
for them! For your joys, — may they be true and deep, and 
paint themselves upon this lovely face till it quite belie my 
art ! ” 

After the marriage of Walter and Elinor, the pictures 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


211 


formed the two most splendid ornaments of their abode. 
They hung side by side, separated by a narrow pannel, appear- 
ing to eye each other constantly, yet always returning the gaze 
of the spectator. Travelled gentlemen, who professed a 
knowledge of such subjects, reckoned these among the most 
admirable specimens of modern portraiture ; while common 
observers compare them with the originals, feature by fea- 
ture, and were rapturous in praise of the likeness. But it was 
on a third class — neither travelled connoisseurs nor common 
observers but people of natural sensibility — that the pictures 
wrought their strongest effect. Such persons might gaze care- 
lessly at first, but, becoming interested, would return day after 
day, and study these painted faces like the pages of a mystic 
volume. Walter Ludlow's portrait attracted their earliest 
notice. In the absence of himself and his bride, they some- 
times disputed as to the expression which the painter had in- 
tended to throw upon the features ; all agreeing that there 
was a look of earnest import, though no two explained it alike. 
There was less diversity of opinion in regard to Elinor’s 
picture. They differed, indeed, in their attempts to estimate 
the nature and depth of the gloom that dwelt upon her face, 
but agreed that it was gloom, and alien from the natural tem- 
perament of their youthful friend. A certain fanciful person 
announced, as the' result of much scrutiny, that both these pic- 
tures were parts of one design, and that the melancholy 
strength of feeling, in Elinor’s countenance, bore reference to 
the more vivid emotion or, as he termed it, the wild passion, 
in that of Walter. Though unskilled in the art, he even began 
a sketch, in which the action of the two figures was to cor- 
respond with their mutual expression. 

It was whispered among friends, that, day by day, Elinor’s 
face was assuming a deeper shade of pensiveness, which 


212 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


threatened soon to render her too true a counterpart of her 
melancholy picture. Walter, on the other hand, instead of 
acquiring the vivid look which the painter had given him on 
the canvas, became reserved and downcast, with no outward 
flashes of emotion, however it might be smouldering within. 
In course of time, Elinor hung a gorgeous curtain of purple 
silk, wrought with flowers, and fringed with heavy golden 
tassels, before the pictures, under pretence that the dust would 
tarnish their hues, or the light dim them. It was enough. 
Her visitors felt, that the massive folds of the silk must never 
be withdrawn, nor the portraits mentioned in her presence. 

Time wore on ; and the painter came again. He had been 
far enough to the north to see the silver cascade of the 
Crystal Hills, and to look over the vast round of cloud and 
forest, from the summit of New England’s loftiest mountain. 
But he did not profane that scene by the mockery of his art. 
He had also lain in a canoe on the bosom of Lake George, 
making his soul the mirror of its loveliness and grandeur, 
till not a picture in the Vatican was more vivid than his recol- 
lection. He had gone with the Indian hunters to Niagara, 
and there, again, had flung his hopeless pencil down the 
precipice, feeling that he could as soon paint the roar, as aught 
else that goes to make up the wondrous cataract. In truth, 
it was seldom his impulse to copy natural scenery, except as a 
frame-work for the delineations of the human form and face, 
instinct with thought, passion, or suffering. With store of 
such, his adventurous ramble had enriched him ; the stern 
dignity of Indian chiefs; the dusky loveliness of Indian girls; 
the domestic life of wigwams; the stealthy march; the battle 
beneath gloomy pinetrees; the frontier fortress with its gar- 
rison ; the anomaly of the old French partisan, bred in courts, 
but brown gray in shaggy deserts; such were the scenes and 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


213 


portraits that he had sketched. The glow of perilous mo- 
ments; flashes of wild feeling; struggles of fierce power — 
love, hate, grief, frenzy — in a word, all the worn-out heart 
of the old earth had been revealed to him under a new form. 
His portfolio was filled with graphic illustrations of the volume 
of his memory, which genius would transmute into its own 
substance, and imbue with immortality. He felt that the deep 
wisdom in his art, which he had sought so far, was found. 

But, amid stern or lovely nature, in the perils of the forest, 
or its overwhelming peacefulness, still there had been two 
phantoms, the companions of his way. Like all other men 
around whom an engrossing purpose wreathes itself, he was 
insulated from the mass of human kind. He had no aim, — no 
pleasure, — no sympathies, — but what were ultimately con- 
nected with his art. Though gentle in manner, and upright 
in intent and action, he did not possess kindly feelings; his 
heart was cold ; no living creature could be brought near 
enough to keep him warm. For these two beings, however, 
he had felt, in its greatest intensity, the sort of interest which 
always allied him to the subjects of his pencil. He had pried 
into their souls with his keenest insight, and pictured the result 
upon their features, with his utmost skill, so as barely to fall 
short of that standard which no genius ever reached, his own 
severe conception. He had caught from the duskiness of the 
future — at least, so he fancied — a fearful secret, and had 
obscurely revealed it on the portraits. So much of himself — 
of his imagination and all other powers — had been lavished 
on the ^tudy of Walter and Elinor, that he almost regarded 
them as creations of his own, like the thousands with which he 
had peopled the realms of Picture. Therefore did they flit 
through the twilight of the woods, hover on the mist of water- 
falls, look forth from the mirror of the lake, nor melt away 


214 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


in the noontide sun. They haunted his pictorial fancy, not as 
mockeries of life, nor pale goblins of the dead, but in the 
guise of portraits, each with the unalterable expression which 
his magic had evoked from the caverns of the soul. He could 
tiot recross the Atlantic, till he had again beheld the originals 
of those airy pictures. 

“ Oh, glorious Art ! ” thus mused the enthusiastic painter, 
as he trod the street. ” Thou art the image of the Creator’s 
own. The innumerable forms, that wander in nothingness, 
start into being at thy beck. The dead live again. Thou 
recallest them to their old scenes, and givest their gray 
shadows the lustre of a better life, at once earthly and im- 
mortal. Thou snatchest back the fleeting moments of History. 
With thee, there is no Past ; for, at thy touch, all that is great 
becomes forever present; and illustrious men live through long 
ages, in the visible performance of the very deeds which made 
them what they are. Oh, potent Art ! as thou bringest the 
faintly revealed Past to stand in that narrow strip of sunlight, 
which we call Now, canst thou summon the shrouded Future 
to meet her there? Have I not achieved it! Am I not thy 
Prophet?” 

Thus, with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, did he almost 
cry aloud, as he* passed through the toilsome street, among 
people that knew not of his reveries, nor could understand 
nor care for them. It is not good for man to cherish a 
solitary ambition. Unless there be those around him, by whose 
example he may regulate himself, his thoughts, desires, and 
hopes will become extravagant, and he the semblance, perhaps 
the reality, of a madman. Reading other bosoms, with . an 
acuteness almost preternatural, the painter failed to see the 
disorder of his own. 

4 And this should be the house,” said he, looking up and 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


213 


down the front, before he knocked. “ Heaven help my 
brains! That picture! Melhinks it will never vanish. 
Whether I look at the windows or the door, there it is framed 
within them, painted strongly, and glowing in the richest tints 
— the faces of the portraits — the figures and action of the 
sketch ! ” 

He knocked. 

“The Portraits ! Are they within?” inquired he, of the 
domestic; then recollecting himself, — “your master and mis- 
tress! Are they at home?’’ 

“ They are, sir,” said the servant, adding, as he noticed that 
picturesque aspect of which the painter could never divest 
himself, “ and the Portraits too ! ” 

The guest was admitted into a parlor, communicating by a 
central door with an interior room of the same size. As the 
first apartment was empty, he passed to the entrance of the 
second, within which his eyes were greeted by those living 
personages, as well as their pictured representatives, who had 
long been the objects of so singular an interest. He involun- 
tarily paused on the threshold. 

They had not perceived his approach. Walter and Elinor 
were standing before the portraits,, whence the former had just 
flung back the rich and voluminous folds of the silken curtain, 
holding its golden tassel with one hand, while the other 
grasped that of his bride. The pictures, concealed for months, 
gleamed forth again in undiminished splendor, appearing to 
throw a sombre light across the room, rather than to be 
disclosed by a borrowed radiance. That of Elinor had been 
almost prophetic. A pensiveness, and next a gentle sorrow, 
had successively dwelt upon her countenance, deepening, with 
the lapse of time, into a quiet anguish. A mixture of affright 
would now have made it the very expression of the portrait. 


216 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Walter’s face was moody and dull, or animated only by fit- 
ful flashes, which left a heavier darkness for their momentary 
illumination. He looked from Elinor to her portrait, and 
thence to his own, in the contemplation of which he finally 
stood absorbed. 

The painter seemed to hear the step of Destiny approach- 
ing behind him, on its progress towards its victims. A strange 
thought darted into his mind. Was not his own the form in 
which that Destiny had embodied itself, and he a chief agent 
of the coming evil which he had foreshadowed? 

Still, Walter remained silent before the picture, communing 
with it, as with his own heart, and abandoning himself to the 
spell of evil influence, that the painter had cast upon the fea- 
tures. Gradually his eyes kindled ; while as Elinor watched 
the increasing wildness of his face, her own assumed a look of 
terror ; and when at last he turned upon her, the resemblance 
of both to their portraits was complete. 

“ Our fate is upon us ! ” howled Walter. “ Die ! ” 

Drawing a knife, he sustained her, as she was sinking to 
the ground, and aimed it at her bosom. In the action and in 
the look and attitude of each, the painter beheld the figures of 
his sketch. The picture, with all its tremendous coloring, was 
finished. 

“ Hold, madman !” cried he, sternly. 

He had advanced from the door, and interpose'd himself be- 
tween the wretched beings, with the same sense of power to 
regulate their destiny, as to alter a scene upon the canvas. He 
stood like a magician, controlling the phantoms which he had 
evoked. 

“ What ! ” muttered Walter Ludlow, as he relapsed from 
fierce excitement into sullen gloom. “ Does Fate impede jts 
own decree?” 


THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 


217 


“Wretched lady!” said the painter. “Did I not warn 
you ? ” 

“ You did,” replied Elinor, calmly, as her terror gave place to 
the quiet grief which it had disturbed. “ But — I loved him! ” 
Is there not a deep moral in the tale? Could the result of 
one, or all our deeds, be shadowed forth and set before us, — 
some would call it fate, and hurry onward, others be swept 
along by their passionate desires, — and none be turned aside 
by the Prophetic Pictures. 


l 





DAVID SWAN. 


A FANTASY. 

We can be but partially acquainted even with the events 
which actually influence our course through life, and our final 
destiny. There are innumerable other events — if such they 
may be called — which come close upon us, yet pass away 
without actual results, or even betraying their near approach, 
by the reflection o£ any light or shadow across our minds. 
Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would 
be too full of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to 
afford us a single hour of true serenity. This idea may be 
illustrated by a page from the secret history of David Swan. 

We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the 
age of twenty, on the high road from his native place to the 
city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery 
line, was to take him behind the counter. Be it enough to say, 
that he was a native of New Hampshire, born of respectable 
parents, and had received an ordinary school education, with 
a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton academy. After 
journeying on foot, from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer’s 
day, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him 
to sit down in the first convenient shade, and await the com- 
ing up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, 
there soon appeared a little tuft of maples, with a delightful 
recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubbling spring, that it 
seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but David 

218 


DAVID SWAN 


219 


Swan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and 
then flung himself along the brink, pillowing his head upon 
some shirts and a pair of pantaloons, tied up in a striped cot- 
ton handkerchief. The sunbeams could not reach him ; the 
dust did not yet rise from the road, after the heavy rain of 
yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man better 
than a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside 
him ; the branches waved dreamily across the blue sky over- 
head ; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its 
depths, fell upon David Swan. But we are to relate events 
which he did not dream of. 

While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were 
wide awake, and passed to and fro, a-foot, on horseback, and 
in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bed- 
chamber. Some looked neither to the right hand nor the left, 
and knew not that he was there ; some merely glanced that 
way, without admitting the slumberer among their busy 
thoughts ; some laughed to see how soundly he slept ; and 
several, whose hearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected 
their venomous superfluity on David Swan. A middle-aged 
widow, when nobody else was near, thrust her head a little 
way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellow looked 
charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and 
wrought poor David into the texture of his evening’s dis- 
course, as an awful instance of dead drunkenness by the road- 
side. But, censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference 
were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan. 

He had slept only a few moments, when a brown car- 
riage, drawn by a handsome pair of horses, bowled easily 
along, and was brought to a stand-still nearly in front of 
David’s resting place. A linch-pin had fallen out, and per- 
mitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage was slight. 


220 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly mer- 
chant and his wife, who were returning to Boston in the 
carriage. While the coachman and a servant were replacing 
the wheel, the lady and gentleman sheltered themselves beneath 
the maple trees, and there espied the bubbling fountain, and 
David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with the awe which 
the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchant 
trod as lightly as the gout would allow ; and his spouse took 
good heed not to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start 
up, all of a sudden. 

“ How soundly he sleeps ! ” whispered the old gentleman. 
“ From what a depth he draws that easy breath ! Such 
sleep as that, brought on without an opiate, would be worth 
more to me than half my income; for it would suppose health, 
and an untroubled mind.” 

“And youth, besides,” said the lady. “Healthy and quiet 
age does not sleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his, 
than our wakefulness.” 

The longer they looked the more did this elderly couple 
feel interested in the unknown youth, to whom the way-side 
and the maple shade were as a secret chamber, with the rich 
gloom of damask curtains brooding over him. Perceiving 
that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, the lady 
contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. And 
having done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a 
mother to him. 

“ Providence seems to have laid him here,” whispered she 
to her husband, “ and to have brought us hither to find 
him, after our disappointment in our cousin’s son. Methinks 
I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shall we waken 
him ? ” 


DAVID SWAN 


22 ! 


“To what purpose?” said the merchant, hesitating. “W 
know nothing of the youth’s character.” 

“That open countenance ! ” replied his wife, in the same 
hushed voice, yet earnestly. “ This innocent sleep ! ” 

While these whispers were passing, the sleeper’s heart did 
not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features 
betray the least token of interest. Yet Fortune was bending 
over him, just ready to let fall a burthen of gold. The old 
merchant had lost his only son, and had no heir to his wealth, 
except a distant relative, with whose conduct he was dissatis- 
fied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than 
to act the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor, 
who fell asleep in poverty. 

“ Shall we not waken him? ” repeated the lady, persuasively. 

“ The coach is ready, sir,” said the servant, behind. 

The old couple started, reddened, and hurried ,away, 
mutually wondering that they should ever have dreamed 
of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant threw 
himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mind with the 
plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. 
Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap. 

The carriage could not have- gone above a mile or two, 
when a pretty young girl came along, with a tripping pace, 
which showed precisely how her little heart was dancing in 
her bosom. Perhaps it was this merry kind of motion that 
caused — is there any harm in saying it? — her garter to slip 
its knot. Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, was 
relaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the 
maple-trees, and there found a young man asleep by the 
spring! Blushing, as red as any rose, that she should have 
intruded into a gentleman’s bedchamber, and for such a pur- 
pose, too, she was about to make her ' escape on tiptoe. But 


222 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


there was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had 
been wandering overhead. — buzz, buzz, buzz, — now among 
the leaves, now flashing through the strips of sunshine, and 
now lost in the dark shade, till finally he appeared to be settling 
on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a bee is some- 
times deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, the girl 
attacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him 
soundly, and drove him from beneath the maple shade. How 
sweet a picture ! This good deed accomplished, with quick- 
ened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole a glance at the 
youthful stranger for whom she had been battling with a 
dragon in the air. 

“ He is handsome ! ” thought she, and blushed redder yet. 

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong 
within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part 
asunder, and allow him to perceive the girl among its phan- 
toms? Why, at least, did no smile of welcome brighten upon 
his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to 
the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, 
and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned 
to meet. Her, only, could he love with a perfect love, — him. 
only, could she receive into the depths of her heart, — and 
now her image was faintly blushing in 'the fountain, by his 
side ; should it pass away, its happy lustre would never gleam 
upon his life again. 

“How sound he sleeps!” murmured the girl. 

She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as 
when she came. 

Now, this girl’s father was a thriving country merchant in 
the neighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be 
looking out for just such a young man as David Swan. Had 
David formed a way-side acquaintance with the daughter, he 


DAVID SWAN 223 

would have become the father’s clerk, and all else in natural 
succession. So here, again, had good fortune — the best of 
fortunes — stolen so near, that her garments brushed against 
him ; and he knew nothing of the matter. 

The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned 
aside beneath the maple shade. Both had dark faces, set off 
by cloth caps, which were drawn down aslant over their brows. 
Their dresses were shabby, yet had a certain smartness. These 
were a couple of rascals, who got their living by whatever the 
devil sent them, and now, in the interim of other business, 
had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainy on a 
game of cards, which was to have been decided here under 
the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the 
rogues whispered to his fellow,— 

“Hist! — Do you see that bundle under his head?” 

The other villain nodded, winked, and leered. 

“ I’ll bet you a horn of brandy,” said the first, “ that the chap 
has either a pocket-book, or a snug little hoard of small 
change, stowed away amongst his shirts. And if not there, we 
shall find it in his pantaloons’ pocket.” 

“ But how if he wakes? ” said the other. 

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the 
handle of a dirk, and nodded. 

“ So be it!” muttered the second villain. 

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one 
pointed the dagger towards his heart, the other began to 
search the bundle beneath his head. Their two faces, grim, 
wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their vic- 
tim, looking horrible enough to be mistaken for fiends, should 
he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside into 
the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves. 


224 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


as reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more 
tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother’s breast. 

“ I must take away the bundle,” whispered one. 

“ If he stirs, I’ll strike,” muttered the other. 

But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, 
came in beneath the maple trees, and gazed alternately at 
each of these wicked men, and then at the quiet sleeper. 
He then lapped out of the fountain. 

“Pshaw!” said one villain. “We can do nothing now. 
The dog’s master must be close behind.” 

“ Let’s take a drink and be off,” said the other. 

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his 

bosom, and drew forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind 

. . 

which kills by a single discharge. It was a flask of liquor, 
with a block-tin tumbler screwed upon the mouth. Each drank 
a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with so many jests, and 
such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they 
might be said to ha^e gone on their way rejoicing. In a few 
hours, they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined 
that the recording angel had written down the crime of murder 
against their souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for 
David Swan, he still slept quietly, neither conscious of the 
shadow of death when it hung over him, nor of the glow of 
renewed life, when that shadow was withdrawn. 

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour’s 
repose had snatched, from his elastic frame, the weariness 
with which many hours of toil had burthened it. Now he stir- 
red,— now moved his lips, without a sound,— now talked, in 
an inward tone, to the noonday spectres of his dream. But a 
noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the 
road, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David’s 


DAVID SWAN 


225 


slumber, — and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with 
all his ideas about him. 

“Halloo, driver! — Take a passenger?” shouted he. 

“ Room on top ! ” answered the driver. 

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Bos- 
ton, without so much as a parting glance, at that fountain of 
dreamlike vicissitude. He knew not that a phantom of Wealth 
had thrown a golden hue upon its waters, — nor that one of 
Love had sighed softly to their murmur, — nor that one of 
Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood, — all, 
in the brief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or 
waking, we hear not the airy footsteps of the strange things 
that almost happen. Does it not argue a superintending 
Providence, that, while viewless and unexpected events thrust 
themselves continually athwart our path, there should still be 
regularity enough, in mortal life, to render foresight .even 
partially available? 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE 

So! I have climbed high, and my reward is small. Here 
I stand, with wearied knees, earth, indeed, at a dizzy depth 
below, but heaven far, far beyond me still. Oh, that I could 
soar up into the very zenith, where man never breathed, nor 
-eagle ever flew, and where the ethereal azure melts away from 
the eye, and appears only a deepened shade of nothingness \ 
And yet I shiver at that cold and solitary thought. What 
clouds are gathering in the golden west, with direful intent 
against the brightness and the warmth of this summer after- 
noon ! They are ponderous air-ships, black as death, and 
freighted with the tempest ; and at intervals their thunder, the 
signal-guns of that unearthly squadron, rolls distant along 
the deep of heaven. These nearer heaps of fleecy vapor — 
methinks I could roll and toss upon them the whole day long ! 
— seem scattered here and there, for the repose of tired 
pilgrims through the sky. Perhaps — for who can tell? — 
beautiful spirits are disporting themselves there, and will bless 
my mortal eye with the brief appearance of their curly locks of 
golden light, and laughing faces, fair and faint as the people 
of a rosy dream. Or, where the floating mass so imperfectly 
obstructs the color of the firmament, a slender foot and fairy 
limb, resting too heavily upon the frail support, may be thrust 
through, and suddenly withdrawn, while longing fancy follows 
them in vain. Yonder again is an airy archipelago, where the 
sunbeams love to linger in their journeyings through space. 
Every one of those little clouds has been dipped and steeped 

226 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE 


- 22 ? 


in radiance, . which the slightest pressure might disengage in 
silvery profusion, like water wrung from a sea-maid’s hair. 
Bright they are as a young man’s visions, and, like them, 
would be realized in chillness, obscurity, and tears. I will look 
on them no more. 

In three parts of the visible circle, whose centre is this 
spire, I discern cultivated fields, villages, white country-seats, 
the waving lines of rivulets, little placid lakes, and here and 
there a rising' ground, that would fain be termed a hill. On 
the fourth side is the sea, stretching away towards a viewless 
boundary, blue and calm, except where the passing anger of 
a shadow flits across" its surface, and is gone. Hitherward, 
a broad inlet penetrates far into the land; on the verge of the 
harbor, formed by its extremity, is a town; and over it am I, 
a watchman, all heeding and unheeded. O that the multitude 
of chimneys could speak, like those of Madrid, and betray, in 
smoky whispers, the secrets of all who, since their first founda- 
tion, have assembled at the hearths within! O that the 
Limping Devil of Le Sage* would perch beside me here, extend 
his wand over this contiguity of roofs, uncover every chamber, 
and make me familiar with their inhabitants! The most de- 
sirable mode of existence might be that of a spiritualized Paul 
Pry hovering invisible round man and woman, witnessing 
their deeds, searching into their hearts, borrowing brightness 
from their felicity, and shade from their sorrow, and retaining 
no emotion peculiar to himself. But none of these things are 
possible; and if I would know the interior of brick walls, or 
the mystery of human bosoms, I can but guess. 

Yonder is a fair street, extending north and south. The 
stately mansions are placed each on its carpet of verdant 

* The Limping Devil of Le Sage. Le Diable Boiteaux by Alain Rene 
le Sage (1668-1747). 


228 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


•grass, and a long flight of steps descends from every door to 
the pavement. Ornamental trees — the broad-leafed horse- 
chestnut, the elm so lofty and bending, the graceful but infre- 
quent willow, and others whereof I know not the names, grow 
thrivingly among brick and stone. The oblique rays of the 
sun are intercepted by these green citizens, and by the houses, 
so that one side of the street is a shaded and pleasant walk. 
On its whole extent there is now but a single passenger, ad- 
vancing from the upper end ; and he, unless distance and the 
medium of a pocket spyglass do him more than justice, is a fine 
young man of twenty. He saunters slowly forward, slapping 
■his left hand with his folded gloves, bending his eyes upon the 
pavement, and sometimes raising them to throw a glance be- 
fore him. Certainly, he has a pensive air. Is he in doubt, or 
in debt? Is he, if the question be allowable, in love? Does 
lie strive to be melancholy and gentlemanlike? — Or, is he 
merely overcome by the heat? But I bid him farewell, for the 
present. The door of one of the houses, an aristocratic edifice, 
with curtains of purple and gold waving from the windows, 
is now opened, and down the steps come two ladies, swinging 
their parasols, and lightly arrayed for a summer ramble. ' Both 
are young, both are^ pretty ; but methinks the left hand lass 
is the fairer of the twain; and, though she be so serious at 
this moment, I could swear that there is a treasure of gentle 
fun within her. They stand talking a little while upon the 
steps, and finally proceed up the street. Meantime, as their 
faces are now turned from me, I may look elsewhere. 

Upon that wharf, and down the corresponding street, is a 
busy contrast to the quiet scene which I have just noticed. 
Business evidently has its centre there, and many a man is 
wasting the summer afternoon in labor and anxiety, in losing 
riches, or in gaining them, when he would be wiser to flee 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE 


229 


away to some pleasant country village, or shaded lake in the 
forest, or wild and cool sea-beach. 1 see vessels unlading ac 
the wharf, and precious merchandise strown upon the ground, 
abundantly as at the bottom of the sea, that market whence no 
goods return, and where there is no captain nor supercargo to 
render an account of sales. Here, the clerks are diligent with 
their paper and pencils, and sailors ply the block and tackle 
that hang over the hold, accompanying their toil with cries, 
long drawn and roughly melodious, till the bales and 
puncheons ascend to upper air. At a little distance, a group 
of gentlemen are assembled round the door of a warehouse. 
Grave seniors be they, and I would wager — if it were safe, in 
these times, to be responsible for any one — that the least emi- 
nent among them might vie with old Vincentio,* that incom- 
parable trafficker of Pisa. I can even select the wealthiest of 
the company. It is the elderly personage, in somewhat rusty 
black, with powdered hair, the superfluous whiteness of which 
is visible upon the cape of his coat. His twenty ships are 
■ wafted on some of their many courses by every breeze that 
blows, and his name — I will venture to say, though I know it 
not — is a familiar sound among the far separated merchants 
of Europe and the Indies. 

But I bestow too much of my attention in this quarter. On 
looking again to the long and shady walk, I perceive that the 
two fair girls have encountered the young man. After v. sort 
of shyness in the recognition, he turns back with them. More- 
over, he has sanctioned my taste in regard to his companions 
by placing himself on the inner side of the pavement, nearest 
the Venus to whom I — enacting, on a steeple-top, the part of 
Paris on the top of Ida — adjudged the golden apple. 

In two streets, converging at right angles towards my watch- 


* Vincatio. 


230 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


tower, I distinguish three different processions. One is a 
proud array of voluntary soldiers, in bright uniform, re- 
sembling, from the height whence I look down, the painted 
veterans that garrison the windows of a toy-shop. And yet, 
it stirs my heart ; their regular advance, their nodding plumes- 
the sunflash on their bayonets and musket-barrels, the roll of 
their drums ascending past me, and the fife ever and anon 
piercing through, — these things have wakened a warlike fire, 
peaceful though I be. Close to their rear marches a battalion 
of school boys, ranged in crooked and irregular platoons, 
shouldering sticks, thumping a harsh and unripe clatter from 
an instrument of tin, and ridiculously aping the intricate 
manoeuvres of the ioremost band. Nevertheless, as slight dif- 
ferences are scarcely perceptible from a church-spire, one 
might be tempted to ask, “Which are the boys?” or, rather, 
** Which the men ? ” But, leaving these, let us turn to the third 
procession, which, though sadder in outward show, may excite 
identical reflections in the thoughtful mind. It is a funeral. 
A hearse, drawn by a black and bony steed, and covered by a 
dusty pall ; two or three coaches rumbling over the stones, 
their drivers half asleep " a dozen couple of careless mourners 
in their every-day attire ; such was not the fashion of our 
fathers, when they carried a friend to his grave. There is 
now no doleful clang of the bell to proclaim sorrow to the 
town. Was the King of Terrors more awful in those days 
than in our own, that wisdom and philosophy have been able 
to produce this change? Not so. Here is a proof that he re- 
tains his proper majesty. The military men, and the military 
boys, are wheeling round the corner, and meet the funeral full 
in the face. Immediately the drum is silent, all but the tap 
that regulates each simultaneous foot-fall. The soldiers yield 
the path to the dusty hearse and unpretending train, and the 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE 


231 


children quit their ranks, and cluster on the sidewalks, with 
timorous and instinctive curiosity. The mourners enter the 
churchyard at the base of the steeple, and pause by an open 
grave among the burial stones; the lightning glimmers on 
them as they lower down the coffin, and the thunder rattles 
heavily while they throw the earth upon its lid. Verily, the 
shower is near, and I tremble for the young man and the 
girls, who have now disappeared from the long and shady 
street 

How various are the situations of the people covered by 
the roofs beneath me, and how diversified are the events at 
this moment befalling them ! The new-born, the aged, the 
dying, the strong in life, and the recent dead are in the 
chambers of these many mansions. The full of hope, the 
happy, the miserable, and the desperate dwell together within 
the circle of my glance. In some of the houses over which 
my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts that are 
still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue, — guilt is on 
the very edge of commission, and the impending deed might 
be averted; guilt is done, and the criminal wonders if it be 
irrevocable. There are broad thoughts struggling in my 
mind, and, were I able to give them distinctness, they would 
make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are de- 
scending. 

The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the 
sky, hanging heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken 
mass upon the earth. At intervals, the lightning flashes from 
their brooding hearts, quivers, disappears, and then comes 
the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born flame. A 
strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened 
streets, and raises the dus>t in dense bodies, to rebel against 
the approaching storm. The disbanded soldiers fly, the 


232 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


funeral has already vanished like it's dead, and all people 
hurry homeward, — all that have a home ; while a few lounge 
by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure. In 
a narrow lane, which communicates with the shady street, I 
discern the rich old merchant, putting himself to the top of 
his speed, lest the rain should convert his hair-powder to a 
paste. Unhappy gentleman ! By the slow vehemence, and 
painful moderation wherewith he journeys, it is but too 
evident that Podagra has left its thrilling tenderness in his 
great toe. But yonder, at a far more rapid pace, come three 
other of my acquaintance, the two pretty girls and the young 
man, unseasonably interrupted in their walk. Their foot- 
steps are supported by the risen dust, the wind lends them 
its velocity, they fly like three sea-birds driven landward by 
the tempestuous breeze. The ladies would not thus rival 
Atalanta if they but knew that any one were at leisure to ob- 
serve them. Ah ! as they hasten onward, laughing in the 
angry face of nature, a sudden catastrophe has chanced. At 
the corner where the narrow lane enters into the street they 
come plump against the old merchant, whose tortoise mo- 
tion has just brought him to that point. He likes not the 
sweet encounter ; the darkness of the whole air gathers speed- 
ily upon his visage, and there is a pause on both sides. Finally, 
he thrusts aside the youth with little courtesy, seizes an arm of 
each of the two girls, and plods onward, like a magician with 
a prize of captive fairies. All this is easy to be understood. 
How disconsolate the poor lover stands! regardless of the 
rain that threatens an exceeding damage to his well-fash- 
ioned habiliments, till he catches a backward glance of 
mirth from a bright eye, and turns away with whatever com- 
fort it conveys. 

The old man and his daughters are safely housed, and 


SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE 


233 


now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling I per- 
ceive the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the 
windows, excluding the impetuous shower, and shrinking 
away from the quick fiery glare. The large drops descend 
with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in smoke. 
There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and 
muddy streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl 
their dusty foam into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron 
grates. Thus did Arethusa sink. I love not my station here 
aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I am powerless to 
direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my 
brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in 
my ear. I will descend. Yet let me give another glance to 
the sea, where the foam breaks out in long white lines upon 
a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far-distant 
points, like snowy mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood ; and 
let . me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of 
the country, over which the giant of the storm is striding in 
robes of mist, and at the town, whose obscured and desolate 
streets might beseem a city of the dead; and turning a single 
moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author’s prospects, I 
prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But stay! 
A little speck of azure has widened in the western heavens; 
the sunbeams find a passage, and go rejoicing through the 
tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, like hallowed 
hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and 
tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbov ! 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS 

[“The Hollow of the Three Hills affords an excellent exam- 
pie of the author’s peculiar ability. The subject is common- 
place. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to the view 
of a mourner. It has become the fashion to describe, in such 
cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent shall appear ; 
or a cloud of smoke is made to arise, and thence the figures 
are gradually unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully 
heightened his effect by making the ear, in place of the eye, 
the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head of 
the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within 
its magic folds there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient 
intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is con- 
spicuous, — not more in positive than in negative merits. _ Not 
only is all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an 
end with more difficulty attained) there is nothing done which 
should not be. Every word tells, and there is not a word 
which does not tell.” Edgar Allan Poe.] 

In those strange old times, when fantastic dreams and mad- 
men’s reveries were realized among the actual circumstances 
of life, two persons met together at an appointed hour and 
place. One was a lady, graceful in form and fair of feature, 
though pale and troubled, and smitten with an untimely blight 
in what should have been the fullest bloom of her years; the 
other was an ancient and meanly dressed woman, of ill-favored 
aspect, and so withered, shrunken, and decrepit, that even the 
space since she began to decay must have exceeded the ordi- 
nary term of human existence. In the spot where they en- 
countered, no morta^ could observe them. Three little hills 
stood near each other, and down in the midst of them sunk 
a hollow basin, almost mathematically circular, two or three 
hundred feet in breadth, and of such depth that a stately 

234 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS 


235 


cedar might but just be visible above the sides. Dwarf pines 
were numerous upon the hills, and partly fringed the outer 
verge of the intermediate hollow; within which there was 
nothing but the brown grass of October, and here and there 
a tree-trunk, that had fallen long ago, and lay mouldering 
with no green successor from its roots. One of these masses 
of decaying wood, . formerly a majestic oak, rested close 
beside a pool of green and sluggish water at tHe bottom 
of the basin. Such scenes as this (so gray tradition tells), 
were once the resort of the Power of Evil and his plighted 
subjects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verg& 
of evening, they were said to stand round the mantling pool, 
disturbing its putrid waters in the performance of an Impious 
baptismal rite. The chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was 
now gilding the three hill-tops, whence a paler tint stole down 
their sides into the hollow. 

“ Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass,” said the 
aged crone, “ according as thou hast desired. Say quickly 
what thou wouldst have of me, for there is but a short hour 
that we may tarry here.” 

As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glimmered on her 
countenance, like lamplight on the wall of a sepulchre. The 
lady trembled, and cast her eyes upward to the verge of the 
basin, as if meditating to return with her purpose unac- 
complished. But it was not so ordained. 

“ I am a stranger in this land, as you know,” said she, at 
length. “ Whence I come it matters not ; — but I have left 
those behind me with whom my fate was intimately bound, 
•and from whom I am cut off forever. There is a weight in 
my bosom that I cannot away with, and I have come hither to 
inquire of their welfare.” 

“ And who is there by this green pool, that can bring thee 


236 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


news from the ends of the Earth ? ” cried the old woman, 
peering into the lady’s face. “ Not from my lips mayst thou 
hear these tidings ; yet, be thou bold, and the daylight shall 
not pass away from yonder hill-top, before thy wish be 
granted.” 

“ I will do your bidding, though I die,” replied the lady, 
desperately. 

The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen 
tree, threw aside the hood that had shrouded her gray locks, 
and beckoned her companion to draw near. 

“ Kneel down,” she said, “ and lay your forehead on my 
knees.” 

She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been 
kindling burned fiercely up within her. As she knelt down, 
the border of her garment was dipped into the poolj she laid 
her forehead on the old woman’s knees, and the latter drew 
a cloak about the lady’s face, so that she was in darkness. 
Then she heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of 
which she started, and would have arisen. 

“Let me flee, — let me flee and hide myself, that they may 
not look upon me ! ” she cried. But, with returning recol- 
lection, she hushed herself, and was still as death. 

For it seemed as if other voices — familiar in infancy, and 
unforgotten through many wanderings, and in all the vicissi- 
tudes of her heart and fortune — were mingling with the ac- 
cents of the prayer. At first the words were faint and indis- 
tinct, not rendered so by distance, but rather resembling 
the dim pages of a book which we strive to read by an im- 
perfect and gradually brightening light. In such a manner, 
as the prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon the 
car- *ill at length the petition ended, and the conversation of 
*r. aged man, and of a woman broken and decayed like him- 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS 23? 


self, became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. But 
those strangers appeared not to stand in the hollow depth 
between the three hills. Their voices were encompassed and 
reechoed by the walls of a chamber, the windows of which 
were rattling in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, 
the crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers as they 
fell among the ashes, rendered the scene almost as vivid as if 
painted to the eye. By a melancholy hearth sat these two old 
people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and 
tearful, and their words were all of sorrow. They spoke of 
a daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing dis- 
honor along with her, and leaving shame and affliction to 
bring their gray heads to the grave. They alluded also to 
other and more recent woe, but in the midst of their talk, 
their voices seemed to melt into the sound of the wind sweep- 
ing mournfully among the autumn leaves; and when the 
lady lifted her eyes, there was she kneeling in the hollow 
between three hills. 

“ A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of 
it,” remarked the old woman, smiling in the lady's face. 

“ And did you also hear them ! ” exclaimed she, a sense of 
intolerable humiliation triumphing over her agony and fear. 

“Yea; and we have yet more to hear,” replied the old 
woman. “ Wherefore* cover thy face quickly.” 

Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words 
of a prayer that was not meant to be acceptable in Heaven ; 
and soon, in the pauses of her breath, strange murmurings 
began to thicken, gradually increasing so as to drown and 
overpower the charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced 
through the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the 
singing of sweet female voices, which in their turn gave way 
to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly by groanings and 


238 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and 
mourning and mirth. Chains were rattling, fierce and stern 
voices uttered threats, and the scourge resounded at their 
command. All these noises deepened and became substan- 
tial to the listener’s ear, till she could distinguish every soft 
and dreamy accent of the love songs, that died causelessly into 
funeral hymns. She shuddered at the unprovoked wrath 
which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling of flame, and 
she grew faint at the fearful merriment, raging miserably 
around her. In the midst of this wild scene, where unbound 
passions jostled each other in a drunken career, there was 
one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious voice 
it might once have -been. He went to-and-fro continually, and 
his feet sounded upon the floor. In each member of that 
frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts had become 
their exclusive world, he sought an auditor for the story of 
his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears 
as his reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman’s perfidy, 
of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and 
heart made desolate. Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, 
the shriek, the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into 
the hollow, fitful, and uneven sound of the wind, as it fought 
among the pine trees on those three lonely hills. The lady 
looked up, and there was the withered woman, smiling in 
her face. 

“ Couldst thou have thought there were such merry times 
m a Mad House ? ” inquired the latter. 

“True, true,” said the lady to herself; “there is mirth 
within its walls, but misery, misery without.” 

“ Wouldst thou hear more ? ” demanded the old woman. 

“ There is one other voice I would fain listen to again,” 
replied the lady, faintly. 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS 239 


“ Then, lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that 
thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be past.” 

The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, 
but deep shades obscured the hollow and the pool, as if 
sombre night were rising thence to overspread the world. 
Again that evil woman began to weave her spell. Long did 
it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell stole in among 
the intervals of her words, like a clang that had travelled far 
over valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in 
the air. The lady shook upon her companion’s knees, as she 
heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew and sadder, and 
deepened into the tone of a death-bell, knolling dolefully from 
some ivy-mantled tower, and bearing tidings of mortality and 
woe to the cottage, to the hall, and to the solitary way- 
farer, that all might weep for the doom appointed in turn to 
them. Then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly 
on, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on 
the ground, so that the ear could measure the length of their 
melancholy array. Before them went the priest, reading the 
burial-service, while the leaves of his book were rustling in 
the breeze. And though no voice but his was heard to speak 
aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas, whispered 
but distinct, from women and from men, breathed against 
the daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her parents, 
— the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness of her 
husband, — the mother who had sinned against natural affec- 
tion, and left her child to die. The sweeping sound of the 
funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and the wind, that 
just before had seemed to shake the coffin pall, moaned sadly 
round the verge of the hollow between three hills. But when 


240 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she lifted not her 
head. 

“ Here has been a sweet hour’s sport ! ” said the withered 
crone, chuckling to herself. 


V 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY 

A SKETCH OF TRANSITORY LIFE. 

Methinks, for a person whost instinct bids him rather to 
pore over the current of life, than to plunge into its tumultu- 
ous waves, no undesirable retreat were a toll-house beside 
some thronged thoroughfare of the land. In youth, perhaps, it 
is good for the observer to run about the earth, — to leave 
the track of his footsteps far and wide, — to mingle himself 
with the action of numberless vicissitudes, — and, finally, in 
some calm solitude, to feed a musing spirit on all that he has 
seen and felt. But there are natures too indolent, or too sen- 
sitive, to endure the dust, the sunshine, or the rain, the tur- 
moil of moral and physical elements, to which all the way- 
farers of the world expose themselves. For such a man, 
how pleasant a miracle, could life be made to roll its varie- 
gated length by the threshold of his own hermitage, and the 
great globe, as it were, perform its revolutions and shift its 
thousand scenes before his eyes without whirling him on- 
ward in its course. If any mortal be favored with a lot 
analogous to this, it is the toll-gatherer. So, at least, have 
I often fancied, while lounging on a bench at the door of a 
small square edifice, which stands between shore and shore 
in the midst of a long bridge. Beneath the timbers ebbs and 
flows an arm of the sea ; while above, like the life-blood 
through a great artery, the travel of the north and east is con- 
tinually throbbing. Sitting on the aforesaid bench, I amuse 

241 


242 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


myself with a conception, illustrated by numerous pencil- 
sketches in the air, of the toll-gatherer’s day. 

In the morning — dim, gray, dewy summer’s morn — the 
distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old 
friend’s slumbers, creaking more and more harshly through 
the midst of his dream, and gradually replacing it with reali- 
ties. Hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wakeful- 
ness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll- 
gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The timbers 
groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels ; one sturdy yeoman 
stalks beside the oxen, and, peering from the summit of the 
hay, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the 
toll-house, is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has 
enjoyed a nap some ten miles long. The toll is paid, — creak, 
creak, again go the wheels, and the huge hay-mow vanishes 
into the morning mist. As yet, nature is but half awake, and 
familiar objects appear visionary. But yonder, dashing from 
the shore with a rattling thunder of the wheels and a con- 
fused clatter of hoofs, comes the never-tiring mail, which has 
hurried onward at the same headlong, restless rate, all through 
the quiet night. The bridge resounds in one continued peal 
as the coach rolls on without a pause, merely affording the 
toll-gatherer a glimpse at the sleepy passengers, who now 
bestir their torpid limbs, and snuff a cordial in the briny air. 
The morn breathes upon them and blushes, and they forget 
how wearily the darkness toiled away. And behold now the 
fervid day, in his bright chariot, glittering aslant over the 
waves, nor scorning to throw a tribute of his golden beams 
on the toll-gatherer’s little hermitage. The old man looks 
eastward, and (for he is a moralizer) frames a simile of the 
stage-coach and the sun. 

While the world is rousing itself, we may glance slightly 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY 


243 


at the scene of our sketch. It sits above the bosom of the 
broad flood, a spot not of earth, but in the midst of waters, 
which rush with a murmuring sound among the massive 
beams beneath. Over the door is a weather-beaten board, 
inscribed with the rates of toll, in letters so nearly effaced that 
the gilding of the sunshine can hardly make them legible. Be- 
neath the window is a wooden bench, on which a long succes- 
sion of weary wayfarers have reposed themselves. Peeping 
within doors we perceive the whitewashed walls bedecked with 
sundry lithographic prints and advertisements of various im- 
port, and the immense show-bill of a wandering caravan. And 
there sits our good old toll-gatherer, glorified by the early 
sunbeams. He is a man, as his aspect may announce, of 
quiet soul, and thoughtful, shrewd, yet simple mind, who, of 
the wisdom which the passing world scatters along the way- 
side, has gathered a reasonable store. 

Now the sun smiles upon the landscape, and earth smiles 
back again upon the sky. Frequent, now, are the travellers. 
The toll-gatherer’s practised ear can distinguish the weight of 
every vehicle, the number of its wheels, and how many horses 
beat the resounding timbers with their iron tramp. Here, in a 
substantial family chaise, setting forth betimes to take ad- 
vantage of the dewy road, come a gentleman and his wife, with 
their rosy-cheeked little girl sitting gladsomely between them. 
The bottom of the chaise is heaped with multifarious band- 
boxes and carpet-bags, and beneath the axle swings a leathern 
trunk dusty with yesterday’s journey. Next appears a four- 
wheeled carryall, peopled by a round half-dozen of pretty 
girls, all drawn by a single horse, and driven by a single gen- 
tleman. Luckless wight, doomed, through a whole summer 
day, to be the butt of mirth and mischief among the frolic- 
some maidens. Bolt upright in a sulky rides a thin, sour-vis- 


244 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


aged man, who, as he pays his toll, hands the toll-gatherer a 
printed card to stick upon the wall. The vinegar-faced trav- 
eller proves to be a manufacturer of pickles. Now paces 
slowly from timber to timber a horseman clad in black, with 
a meditative brow, as of one who, whithersoever his steed 
might bear him, would still journey through a mist of brood- 
ing thought. He is a country preacher, going to labor at a 
protracted meeting. The next object passing townward is a 
butcher’s cart, canopied with its arch of snow-white cotton. 
Behind comes a “ sauceman,” driving a wagon full of new 
potatoes, green ears of corn, beets, carrots, turnips, and sum- 
mer squashes; and next, two wrinkled, witch-looking old gos- 
sips, in an antediluvian chaise, drawn by a horse of former 
generations, and going to peddle out a lot of huckleberries. 
See there, a man trundling a wheelbarrow load of lob- 
sters. And now a milk-cart rattles briskly onward, covered 
with green canvas, and conveying the contributions of a 
whole herd of cows, in large tin canisters. But let all these 
pay their toll and pass. Here comes a spectacle that causes 
the old toll-gatherer to smile benignantly, as if the travellers 
brought sunshine with them and -lavished its gladsome in- 
fluence all along the road. 

It is a barouche of the newest style, the varnished panels 
of which reflect the whole moving panorama of the landscape, 
and show a picture, likewise, of our friend, with his visage 
broadened, so that his meditative smile is transformed to 
grotesque merriment. Within, sits a youth, fresh as the sum- 
mer morn, and beside him a young lady in white, with white 
gloves upon her slender hands, and a white veil flowing down 
over her face. But methinks her blushing cheek burns through 
the snowy veil. Another white-robed virgin sits in front. And 
who are these, on whom, and on all that appertains to them. 


THE TOLL-GATHERER’S DAY 


245 


the dust of earth seems never to have settled. Two lovers, 
whom the priest has blessed, this blessed morn, and sent them 
forth, with one of the bridemaids, on the matrimonial tour. 
Take my blessing too, ye happty ones! May the sky not frown 
upon you, nor clouds bedew you with their chill and sullen 
rain ! May the hot sun kindle no fever in your hearts ! May 
your whole life’s pilgrimage be as blissful as this first day’s 
journey, and its close be gladdened with even brighter antici- 
pations than those which hallow your bridal night ! 

They pass; and ere the reflection of their joy has faded 
from his face, another spectacle throws a melancholy shadow 
over the spirit of the observing man. In a close carriage sits 
a fragile figure, muffled carefully, and shrinking even from a 
mild breath of summer. She leans against a manly form, and 
his arm enfolds her, as if to guard his treasure from some 
enemy. Let but a few weeks pass, and when he shall strive to 
embrace that loved one, he will press only desolation to his 
heart. 

And now las morning gathered up her dewy pearls, and 
fled away. The sun rolls blazing through the sky, and cannot 
find a cloud to cool his face with. The horses toil sluggishly* 
along the bridge, and heave their glistening sides in short, 
quick pantings, when the reins are tightened at the toll-house. 
Glisten, too, the faces of the travellers. Their garments are 
thickly bestrewn with dust ; their whiskers and hair look 
hoary ; their throats are choked with the dusty atmosphere 
which they have left behind them. No air is stirring on t*he 
road. Nature dares draw no breath, lest she should inhale 
a stifling cloud of dust. “A hot and dusty day! ” cry the poor 
pilgrims, as they wipe their begrimed foreheads, and woo the 
doubtful breeze which the river bears along with it. “ Awful 
hot! Dreadful dusty!” answers the sympathetic toll-gatherer. 


246 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


They start again, to pass through the fiery furnace, while he 
reenters his cool hermitage, and besprinkles it with a pail 
of briny water from the stream beneath. He thinks within 
himself, that the sun is not so fierce here as elsewhere, and 
that the gentle air does not forget him in these sultry days. 
Yes, old friend; and a quiet heart will make a dog-day tem- 
perate. He hears a weary footstep, and perceives a traveller 
with pack and staff, who sits down upon the hospitable bench, 
and removes the bat from his wet brow. The toll-gatherer ad- 
ministers a cup of cold water, and discovering his guest to be 
a man of homely sense, he engages him in profitable talk, 
uttering the maxims of a philosophy which he has found in 
his own soul, but knows not how it came there. And as the 
wayfarer makes ready to resume his journey, he tells him a 
sovereign remedy for blistered feet. 

Now comes the noon-tide hour, — of all the hours nearest 
akin to midnight ; for each has its own calmness and repose. 
Soon, however, the world begins to turn again upon its 
axis, and it seems the busiest epoch of the day ; when an acci- 
dent impedes the march of sublunary things. The draw being 
lifted to permit the passage of a schooner, laden with wood 
from the eastern forests, she sticks immovably, right athwart 
the bridge! Meanwhile, on both sides of the chasm, a throng 
of impatient travellers fret and fume. Here are two sailor in 
a gig, with the top thrown back, both puffing cigars, and swear- 
ing all sorts of forecastle oaths ; there, in a smart chaise, a 
dashingly dressed gentleman and lady, he from a tailor’s shop- 
board, and she from a milliner’s back-room, — the aristocrats 
of a summer afternoon. And what are the haughtiest of us, 
but the ephemeral aristocrats of a summer’s day? Here is 
a tin-pedler, whose glittering ware bedazzles all beholders, 
like a travelling meteor, or opposition sun; and on the other 


THE TOLLrGATHERER’S DAY 


247 


side a seller of spruce-beer, which brisk liquor is confined in 
several dozen of stone bottles. Here comes a party of ladies 
on horseback, in green riding habits, and gentlemen attendant ; 
and there a flock of sheep for the market, pattering over the 
bridge with a multitudinous clatter of their little hoofs. Here 
a Frenchman, with a hand-organ on his shoulder; and there an 
itinerant Swiss jeweller. On this side, heralded by a blast 
of clarions and bugles, appears a train of wagons, conveying 
all the wild beasts of a caravan ; and on that, a company of 
summer soldiers, marching from village to village on a festival 
campaign, attended by the “ brass band.” Now look at the 
scene, and it presents an emblem of the mysterious confusion, 
the apparently insolvable riddle, in which individuals, or the 
great world itself, seem often to be involved. What miracle 
shall set all things right again ? 

But see ! the schooner has thrust her bulky carcass through 
the chasm; the draw descends; horse and foot pass onward, 
and leave the bridge vacant from end to end. “ And thus/’ 
muses the toll-gatherer, “ have I found it with all stoppages, 
even though the universe seqmed to be at a stand.” The 
sage old man ! 

Far westward now, the reddening sun throws a broad sheet 
of splendor across the flood, and to the eyes of distant boat- 
men gleams brightly among the timbers of the bridge. Stroll- 
ers come from the town to quaff the freshening breeze. One 
or two let down long lines, and haul up flapping flounders, or 
dinners, or small cod, or perhaps an eel. Others, and fair 
girls among them, with the flush of the hot day still on their 
cheeks, bend over the railing and watch the heaps of sea-weed 
floating upward with the flowing tide. The horses now tramp 
heavily along the bridge, and wistfully bethink them of their 
stables. Rest, rest, thou weary world; for tomorrow’s round 


248 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


of toil and pleasure will be as wearisome as today’s has been ; 
yet both shall bear thee onward a day’s march of eternity. 
Now the old toll-gatherer looks seaward, and discerns the light- 
house kindling on a far island, and the stars, too, kindling in 
the sky, as if but a little way beyond ; and mingling the rev- 
eries of Heaven with remembrances of Earth, the whole pro- 
cession of mortal travellers, all the dusty pilgrimage which he 
has witnessed, seems like a flitting show or phantoms for his 
thoughtful soul to muse upon. 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN 

At fifteen, I became a resident in a country village, mort 
than a hundred miles from home. The morning after my ar- 
rival — a September morning, but warm and bright as any 
in July — I rambled into a wood of oaks, with a few walnut 
trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. 
The ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and 
clumps of young saplings, and traversed only by cattle-paths. 
The track, which I chanced to follow, led me to a crystal 
spring, with a border of grass, as freshly green as on May 
morning, and overshadowed by tne limb of a great oak. One 
solitary sunbeam found its way down, and played like a gold- 
fish in the water. 

From my childhood, I have loved to gaze into a spring. 
The water filled a circular basin, small but deep, and set 
round with stones, some of which were covered with slimy 
moss, the others naked, and of variegated hue, reddish, white, 
and brown. The bottom was covered with coarse sand, which 
sparkled in the lonely sunbeam, and seemed to illuminate the 
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot, the gush of 
the water violently agitated the sand, but without obscuring 
the fountain, or breaking the glassiness of its surface. It ap- 
peared as if some living creature were about to emerge — the 
Naiad of the spring, perhaps — in the shape of a beautiful 
young woman, with a gown of filmy water-moss, a belt of 
rainbow-drops, and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. 
How would the beholder shiver, pleasantly, yet fearfully, to 

249 


250 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


see her sitting on one of the stones, paddling her white feet 
in the ripples, and throwing up water, to sparkle in the sun ! 
Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers, they 
would immediately be moist, as with morning dew. Then 
would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to 
clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, 
and old acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left 
by cattle in drinking, till the bright sand, in the bright water, 
were like a treasury of diamonds. But, should the intruder 
approach too near, he» would find only the drops of a summer 
shower glistening about the spot where he had seen her. 

Reclining on the border of grass, where the dewy goddess 
should have been, I bent forward, and a pair of eyes met 
mine within the watery mirror. They were the reflection of 
my own. I looked again, and lo ! another face, deeper in the 
fountain than my own image, more distinct in all the features, 
yet faint as thought. The vision had th2 aspect of *a fair 
young girl, with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression 
laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy coun- 
tenance, till it seemed just what a fountain would be, if, 
while dancing merrily into the sunshine, it should assume the 
shape of woman. Through the dim rosiness of the cheeks, 
I could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs, the acorns, and 
the sparkling sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused among 
the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness, and 
became a glory round that head so beautiful ! 

My description can give no idea how suddenly the foun- 
tain was thus tenanted, and how soon it was left desolate. 
I breathed ; and there was the face. I held my breath ; and 
it was gone ! Had it passed away, or faded into nothing ? I 
doubted whether it had ever been. 

My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hou> 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN 


251 ' 


did I spend, where that vision found and left me! For a 
long time I sat perfectly still, waiting till it should reappear, 
and fearful that the slightest motion, or even the flutter of 
my breath, might frighten it away. Thus have I often 
started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet, in hopes 
to wile it back. Deep were my musings, as to the race and 
attributes of that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was 
she the daughter of my fancy, akin to those strange shapes 
which peep under the lids of children’s eyes ? And did her 
beauty gladden me, for that one moment, and then die ? 
Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy, or 
woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of 
some forsaken maid, who had drowned herself for love ? Or, 
in good truth, had a lovely girl, with a warm heart, and lips 
that would bear pressure, stolen softly behind me, and thrown 
her image into the spring ? 

I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I de- 
parted, but with a spell upon me, which drew me back, that 
same afternoon, to the haunted spring. There was the water 

gushing, the sand sparkling, and the sunbeam glimmering. 

» 

There the vision was not, but only a great trog, the hermit 
of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout 
and made himself invisible, all except a pair of long legs, 
beneath a stone. Methought he had a devilish look ! I could 
have slain him as an enchanter, who kept the mysterious 
beauty imprisoned in the fountain. 

Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Between me 
and the church spire rose a little hill, and on its summit a 
group of trees, insulated from all the rest of the wood, with 
their own share of radiance hovering on them from the west, 
and their own solitary shadow falling to the east. The 
afternoon being far declined, the sunshine was almost pensive, 


252 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and the shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were min- 
gled in the placid light ; as if the spirits of the Day and Even- 
ing had met in friendship under those trees, and found them- 
selves akin. I was admiring the picture, when the shape of a 
young girl emerged from behind the clump of oaks. My heart 
knew her; it was the Vision; but so distant and ethereal did 
she seem, so unmixed with earth, so imbued with the pensive 
glory of the spot where she was standing, that my spirit sunk 
within me, sadder than before. How could I ever reach her? 

While I gazed, a sudden shower came pattering down upon 
the leaves. In a moment the air was full of brightness, each 
rain-drop catching a portion of sunlight as it fell, and the 
whole gentle shower appearing like a mist, j list substantial 
enough to bear the burthen of radiance. A rainbow, vivid as 
Niagara’s, was painted in the air. Its southern limb came 
down before the group of trees, and enveloped the fair Vision, 
as if the hues of Heaven were the only garment for her 
beauty. When the rainbow vanished, she, who had seemed 
a part of it, was no longer there. Was her existence absorbed 
in Nature’s loveliest phenomenon, and did her pure frame dis- 
solve away in the varied light ? Yet, I would not despair of 
her return ; for, robed in the rainbow, she was the emblem of 
Hope. 

Thus did the Vision leave me ; and many a doleful day suc- 
ceeded to the parting moment. By the spring, and in the 
wood, on the hill, and through the village; at dewy sum- 
rise, burning noon, and at that magic hour of sunset, when 
she had vanished from my sight. I sought her, but in vain. 
Weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared 
not in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered 
to-and-fro, or sat in solitude, like one that had caught a 
glimpse of Heaven, and could take no more joy on earth. I 

f: ' , 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN 253 

withdrew into an inner world, where my thoughts lived and 
breathed, and the Vision in the midst of them. Without in- 
tending it, I became at once the author and hero of a romance, 
conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others 
and my own, and experiencing every change of passion, till 
jealousy and despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I the 
burning fancy of my early youth, with manhood’s colder gift, 
the power of expression, your hearts, sweet ladies, should 
flutter at my tale ! 

In the middle of January, I was summoned home. The 
day before my departure, visiting the spots which had been 
hallowed by the Vision, I found that the spring had a frozen 
bosom, and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter sun- 
shine, on the hill of the rainbow. “ Let me hope,” thought 
I, “ or my heart will be as icy as the fountain, and the whole 
world as desolate as this snowy hill.” Most of the day was 
spent in preparing for the journey, which was to commence 
at four o’clock the next morning. About an hour after 
supper, when all was in readiness, I descended from my 
chamber to the sitting-room, to take leave of the old clergyman 
and his family, with whom I had been an inmate. A gust of 
wind blew out my larfip as I passed through the entry. 

According to their invariable custom, so pleasant a one when 
the fire blazes cheerfully, the family were sitting in the parlor, 
with no other light than what came from the hearth. As the 
good clergyman’s scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts 
of economy, the foundation of his fires was always a large 
heap of tan, or ground bark, which would smoulder away, 
from morning till night, with a dull warmth and no flame. 
This evening the heap of tan was newly put on, and sur- 
mounted with three sticks of red-oak, full of moisture, and a 
few pieces of dry pine, that had not yet kindled. There was 


254 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


no light, except the little that came sullenly from two half- 
burned brands, without even glimmering on the andirons. 
But I knew the position of the old minister’s arm-chair, and 
also where his wife sat, with her knitting-work, and how to 
avoid his two daughters, one a stout country lass, and the 
other a consumptive girl. Groping through the gloom, I 
found my own place next to that of the son, a learned col- 
legian, who had come home to keep school in the village 
during the .winter vacation. I noticed that there was less 
room than usual, to-night, between the collegian’s chair and 
mine. 

As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was 
said for some time after my entrance. Nothing broke the 
stillness but the regular click of the matron’s knitting-needles. 
At times, the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam, which 
twinkled on the old man’s glasses, and hovered doubtfully 
round our circle, but was far too faint to portray the individ- 
uals who composed it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy as 
the scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which 
departed people, who had known and loved each other here, 
would hold communion in eternity ? We were aware of 
each other’s presence, not by sight, nor sound, nor touch, but 
by an inward consciousness. Would it not be so among the 
dead ? 

The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter, 
addressing a remark to some one in the circle, whom she 
called Rachel. Her tremulous and decayed accents were an- 
swered by a single word, but in a voice that made me start, 
and bend towards the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I 
ever heard that sweet, low tone ? If not, why did it rouse up 
so many old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of 
things fanr'liar, yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused 


THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN 


255 


images of her features who had spoken, though buried in the 
gloom of the parlor ? Whom had my heart recognized, that 
it throbbed so? I listened, to catch her gentle breathing, and 
strove, by the intensity of my gaze, to picture forth a shape 
where none was visible. 

Suddenly, the dry pine caught ; the fire blazed up with a 
ruddy glow ; and where the darkness had been, there was she, 
— the Vision of the Fountain! A spirit of radiance only, she 
had vanished with the rainbow, and appeared again in the 
firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze, and be gone. Yet, 
her cheek was rosy and life-like, and her features, in the 
bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer 
than my recollection of them. She knew me ! The mirthful 
expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her 
countenance, when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain, 
was laughing and dimpling there now. One moment our 
glance mingled, — the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon 
the kindled wood, — and darkness snatched away that Daugh- 
ter of the Light, and gave her back to me no more! 

Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the simple 
mystery be revealed, then, that Rachel was the daughter of 
the village Squire, and had left home for a boarding-school, 
the morning, after I arrived, and returned the day before my 
departure ? If I transformed her to an angel, it is what every 
youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists the 
essence of my story. But slight the change, sweet maids, to 
make angels of yourselves ! 


FANCY’S SHOW BOX 


A MORALITY. 

[“A man, virtuous in his general conduct, but committing 
habitually some monstrous crime, — as murder, — and doing 
this without the sense of guilt, but with a peaceful conscience, 
— habit, probably, reconciling him to it; but something (for 
instance, discovery) occurs to make him sensible of his enor- 
mity. His horror then '’ — American Note-Books, p. 273.] 

* .. 

What is Guilt? A stain upon the soul. And it is a point 
of vast interest, whether the soul may contract such stains, 
in all their depth and flagrancy, from deeds which may have 
been plotted and resolved upon, but which, physically, have 
never had existence. Must the fleshly hand and visible frame 
of man set its seal to the evil designs of the soul, in order to 
give them their entire validity against the sinner ? Or, while 
none but crimes perpetrated are cognizable before an earthly 
tribunal, will guilty thoughts, — of which guilty deeds are no 
more than shadows, — will these draw down the full weight 
of a condemning sentence, in the supreme court *of eternity ? 
In the solitude of a mi'dnight chamber, or in a desert, afar 
from men, or in a church, while the body is kneeling, the soul 
may pollute itself even with those crimes, which we are ac- 
customed to deem altogether carnal. If this be true, it is a 
fearful truth. % 

Let us illustrate the subject by an imaginary example. A 
venerable gentleman, one Mr. Smith, who had long been re- 
garded as a pattern of moral excellence, was warming his aged 

256 


FANCY’S SHOW-BOX 


257 


blood with a glass or two of generous wine. His children 
being gone forth about their worldly business, and his grand- 
children at school, he sat alone, in a deep, luxurious arm- 
chair, with his feet beneath a richly carved mahogany table. 
Some old people have a dread of solitude, and when better 
company may not be had, rejoice even to hear the quiet breath- 
ing of a babe, asleep upon the carpet. But Mr. Smith, whose 
silver hair was the bright symbol of a life unstained, except 
by such spots as are inseparable from human nature, he had 
no need of a babe to protect him by its purity, nor of a grown 
person to stand between him and his own soul. Neverthe- 
less, either Manhood must converse with Age, or Woman- 
hood must soothe him with gentle cares, or Infancy must 
sport around his chair, or his thoughts will stray into the 
misty region of the past, and the old man be chill and 
sad. Wine will not always cheer him. Such might have 
been the case with Mr. Smith, when, through the brilliant 
medium of his glass of old Madeira, he beheld three figures 
entering the room. These were Fancy, who had assumed the 
garb and aspect of an itinerant showman, with a box of pic-, 
tures on her back; and Memory, in the likeness of a clerk, 
with a pen behind her ear, an ink-horn at her button-hole, 
and a huge manuscript volume beneath her arm ; and lastly, 
behind the other two, a person shrouded in a dusky mantle, 
which concealed both face and form. But Mr. Smith had a 
shrewd idea that it was Conscience. 

How kind of Fancy, Memory, and Conscience to visit the 
old gentleman, just as he was beginning to imagine that the 
wine had neither so bright a sparkle nor so excellent a flavor 
as when himself and the liquor were less aged ! Through the 
dim length of the apartment, where crimson curtains muffled 
the glare of sunshine, and created a rich obscurity, the three 


258 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


guests drew near the silver-haired old man. Memory, with 
a finger between the leaves of her huge volume, placed herself 
at his right hand. Conscience, with her face still hidden in the 
dusky mantle, took her station on the left, so as to be next 
his heart ; while Fancy set down her picture-box upon the 
table, with the magnifying glass convenient to his eye. We 
can sketch merely the outlines of two or three out of the many 
pictures which, at the pulling of a string, successively peopled 
the box with the semblances of living scenes. 

One was a moonlight picture ; in the background, a lowly 
dwelling; and in front, partly shadowed by a tree, yet be- 
sprinkled with flakes of radiance, two youthful figures, male 
and female. The young man stood with folded arms, a 
haughty smile upon his lip, and a gleam of triumph in his 
eye, as he glanced downward at the kneeling girl. She was 
almost prostrate at his feet, evidently sinking under a weight 
of shame and anguish, which hardly allowed her to lift her 
clasped hands in supplication. Her eyes she could not lift. 
But neither her agony, nor the lovely features on which it was 
depicted, nor the slender grace of the form which it con- 
vulsed, appeared to soften the obduracy of the young man. 
He was the personification of triumphant scorn. Now, strange 
to say, as old Mr. Smith peeped through the magnifying 
glass, which made the objects start out from the canvas, with 
magical deception, he began to recognize the farm-house, the 
tree, and both the figures of the picture. The young man, in 
times long past, had often met his gaze within the looking- 
glass; the girl was the very image of his first-love — his 
cottage-love, — his Martha Burroughs! Mr. Smith was scan- 
dalized. “Oh, vile and slanderous picture!” he exclaims. 
u When have I triumphed over ruined innocence ? Was not 
Martha wedded, in her teens, to David Tomkins, who won 


FANCY’S SHOW-BOX 


259 


her girlish love, and long enjoyed her affection as a wife? 
And ever since his death, she has lived a reputable widow ! ” 
Meantime, Memory was turning over the leaves of her volume, 
rustling them to and fro with uncertain fingers, until, among 
the earlier pages, she found one which had reference to this 
picture. She reads it, close to the old gentleman’s ear; it is a 
record merely of sinful thought, which never was embodied in 
an act ; but, while Memory is reading, Conscience unveils her 
face, and strikes a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith. Though 
not a death-blow, the torture was extreme. 

The exhibition proceeded. One after another, Fancy dis- 
played her pictures, all of which appeared to have been 
painted by some malicious artist, on purpose to vex Mr. 
Smith. Not a shadow of proof could have been adduced, in 
any earthly court, that he was guilty of the slightest of 
those sins which were thus made to stare him in the face 
In one scene, there was a table set out, with several bottles,, 
and glasses half filled with wine, which threw back the 
dull ray of an expiring lamp. There had been mirth and 
revelry, until the hand of the clock stood just at midnight, 
when Murder stept between the boon companions. A young 
man had fallen on the floor, and lay stone dead, with a 
ghastly wound crushed into his temple, while over him, 
with a delirium of mingled rage and horror in his coun- 
tenance, stood the youthful likeness of Mr. Smith. The 
murdered youth wore the features of Edward Spencer ! 

“ What does this rascal of a painter mean ?” cries Mr. 
Smith, provoked beyond all patience, “ Edward Spencer was 
my earliest and dearest friend, true to me as I to him, 
through more than half a century. Neither I, nor any other, 
ever murdered him. Was he not alive within five years, 
and did he not, in token of our long friendship, bequeath me 


260 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


his gold-headed cane and a mourning ring?” Again had 
Memory been turning over her volume, and fixed at length 
upon so confused a page, that she surely must have scribbled 
it when she was tipsy. The purport was, however, that, 
while Mr. Smith and Edward Spencer were heating their 
young blood with wine, a quarrel had flashed up between 
them, and Mr. Smith, in deadly wrath, had flung a bottle at 
Spencer’s head. True, it missed its aim, and merely smashed 
a looking-glass ; and the next morning, when the incident was 
imperfectly remembered, they had shaken hands with a hearty 
laugh. Yet, again, while Memory was reading, Conscience 
unveiled her face, struck a dagger to the heart of Mr. Smith, 
and quelled his remonstrance with her iron frown. The pain 
was quite excruciating. 

Some of the pictures had been painted with so doubtful 
a touch and in colors so faint and pale, that the subjects could 
harely be conjectured. A dull, semi-transparent mist had 
been thrown over the surface of the canvas, into which the fig- 
ures seemed to vanish, while the eye sought most earnestly to 
fix them. But, in every scene, however dubiously portrayed, 
Mr. Smith was invariably haunted by his own lineaments, at 
•various ages, as in a dusty mirror. After poring several 
minutes over one of these blurred and almost indistinguish- 
able pictures, he began to see that the painter had intended 
to represent him, now in the decline of life, as stripping the 
clothes from the backs of three half-starved children. “ Really, 
this puzzles me ! ” quoth Mr. Smith, with the irony of con- 
scious rectitude. “ Asking pardon of the painter, I pro- 
nounce him a fool, as well a$ a scandalous knave. A man of 
my standing in the world, to be robbing little children of 
their clothes! Ridiculous!” — But while he spoke, Memory 
bad searched her fatal volume, and found a page, which, with 


FANCY’S SHOW-BOX 


261 


her sad, calm voice, she poured into his ear. It was not al- 
together inapplicable to the misty scene. It told how Mr. 
Smith had been grievously -tempted, by many devilish sophis- 
tries, on the ground of a legal quibble, to commence a law- 
suit against three orphan children, joint heirs to a consid- 
erable estate. Fortunately, before he was quite decided, his 
claims had turned out nearly as devoid of law as justice. As 
Memory ceased to read, Conscience again thrust aside her 
mantle, and would have struck her victim with the enven- 
omed dagger, only that he struggled, and clasped his hands 
before his heart. Even then, however, he sustained an ugly 
gash. 

Why should we follow Fancy through the whole series 
of those awful pictures? Painted by an artist of wondrous 
power, and terrible acquaintance with the secret soul, they 
embodied the ghosts of all the never-perpetrated sins that 
had glided through the lifetime of Mr. Smith. And could 
such beings of cloudy fantasy, so near akin to nothingness, 
give valid evidence against him, at the day of judgment? Be 
that the case or not, there is reason to believe that one truly 
penitential tear would have washed away each hateful picture, 
and left the canvas white as snow. But Mr. Smith, at a 
prick of Conscience too keen to be endured, bellowed aloud, 
with impatient agony, and suddenly discovered that his three 
guests were gone. There he sat alone, a silver-haired and 
highly venerated old man, in the rich gloom of the crimson- 
curtained room, with no box of pictures on the table, but only 
a decanter of most excellent Madeira. Yet his heart still 
seemed to fester with the venom of the dagger. 

Nevertheless, the unfortunate old gentleman might have 
argued the matter with Conscience, and alleged many reasons 
wherefore she should not smite him so pitilessly. Were we 


262 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


to take lip his cause, it should be somewhat in the following 
fashion : A scheme of guilt, till it be put in execution, 
greatly resembles a train of incidents in a projected tale. 
The latter, in order to produce a sense of reality in the reader’s 
mind, must be conceived with such proportionate strength by 
the author as to seem, in the glow of fancy, more like truth, 
past, present, or .to come, than purely fiction. The prospective 
sinner, on the other hand, weaves his plot of crime, but 
seldom or never feels a perfect certainty that it will be 
executed. There is a dreaminess diffused about his thoughts ; 
in a dream, as it were, he strikes the death-blow into his 
-victim's heart, and starts to find an indelible blood-stain on 
his hand. Thus a novel writer, or a dramatist, in creating a 
villain of romance, and fitting him with evil deeds, and the 
villain of actual life, in projecting crimes that will be per- 
petrated, may almost meet each other, half way between real- 
ity and fancy. It is not until the crime is accomplished, that 
guilt clinches its gripe upon the guilty heart, and claims it 
for its own. Then, and not before, sin is actually felt and 
acknowledged, and, if unaccompanied by repentance, grows 
a thousandfold more virulent by its self-consciousness. Be 
it considered, also, that men often over-estimate their capac- 
ity for evil. At a distance, while its attendant circumstances 
<lo not press upon their notice, and its results are dimly seen, 
they can bear to contemplate it. They may take the steps 
which lead to crime, impelled by the same sort of mental 
action as in working out a mathematical problem, yet be 
powerless with compunction, at the final moment. They knew 
not what deed it was that they deemed themselves resolved to 
<io. In truth, there is no such thing in man’s nature as a 
settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except at 
xhe very moment of execution. Let us hope, therefore, that 


FANCY’S SHOW-BOX 


263 


all the dreadful consequences of sin will not be incurred, 
unless the act have set its seal upon the thought. 

Yet, with the slight fancy-work which we have framed, 
some sad and awful truths are interwoven. Man must not 
disclaim his brotherhood, even with the guiltiest, since, though 
his hand be clean, his heart has surely been polluted by the 
flitting phantoms of iniquity. He must feel, that, when he 
shall knock at the gate of Heaven, no semblance of an un- 
spotted life can entitle him to entrance there. Penitence 
must kneel, and Mercy come from the footstool of the throne, 
or that golden gate will never open! 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 

[“Questions as to unsettled points of history, and mysteries 
of nature, to be asked of a mesmerized person.” American 
Note-Books, p. 274.] 

That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited 
four venerable friends to meet him in his study. There were 
three white-bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Kili- 
igrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose 
name was the Widow Wycherly. They were all melancholy 
old creatures, who had been unfortunate in life, and whose 
greatest misfortune it was that they were not long ago in 
their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of his age, had 
been a prosperous merchant, and had lost his all by a frantic 
speculation, and was now little better than a mendicant. 
Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his health 
and substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had 
given birth to a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers 
other torments of soul and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined 
politician, a man of evil fame, or at least had been so, till 
time had buried him from the knowledge of the present gen- 
eration, and made him obscure instead of infamous. As for 
the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she was a great 
beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had lived 
in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories, 
which had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It 
is a circumstance worth mentioning, that each of these three 
old gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel ^Killigrew, and Mr. 

264 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 


265 


Gascoigne, were early lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and 
had once been on the point of cutting each other’s throats 
for her sake. And, before proceeding farther, I will merely 
hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests were some- 
times thought to be a little beside themselves ; as is not un- 
frequently the case with old people, when worried either by 
present troubles or woful recollections. 

“ My dear old friends,” said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them 
to be seated, “ I am desirous of your assistance in one of those 
little experiments with which I amuse myself here in my 
study.” 

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger’s study must have 
been a very curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned cham- 
ber, festooned with cobwebs and besprinkled with antique 
dust. Around the walls stood several oaken bookcases, the 
lower shelves of which were filled with rows of gigantic fo- 
lios and black-letter quartos, and the upper with little parch- 
ment-covered duodecimos. Over the central bookcase was a 
bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some 
authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consul- 
tations, in all difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest 
corner of the room stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with 
its door ajar, within which doubtfully appeared a skeleton. 
Between two of the bookcases hung a looking-glass, presenting 
its high and dusty plate within a tarnished gilt frame. Among 
many wonderful stories related of this mirror, it was fabled 
that the spirits of all the doctor’s deceased patients dwelt 
within its verge, and would stare him in the face whenever 
he looked thitherward. The opposite side of the chamber was 
ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady, 
arrayed in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and bro- 
cade, and with a visage as faded as her dress. Above half a 


266 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


century ago, Dr. Heidegger had been on the point of mar- 
riage with this young lady; but, being affected with some 
slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her lover’s pre- 
scriptions, and died on the bridal evening. The greatest cu- 
riosity of the study remains to be mentioned ; it was a pon- 
derous folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive 
silver clasps. There were no letters on the back, and nobody 
could tell the title of the book. But it was well known to be 
a book of magic ; and once, when a chambermaid had lifted 
it, merely to brush away the dust, the skeleton had rattled in 
its closet, the picture of the young lady had stepped one 
foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped 
forth from the mirror ; while the brazen head of Hippocrates 
frowned, and said, “ Forbear ! ” 

Such was Dr. Heidegger’s study. On the summer after- 
noon of our tale, a small round table, as black as ebony, 
stood in the centre of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase, 
of beautiful form and elaborate workmanship. The sunshine 
came through the window, between the heavy festoons of two 
faded damask curtains, and fell directly across this vase; 
so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the ashen 
visages of the five old people who sat around. Four cham- 
pagne-glasses were also on the table. 

“ My dear old friends,” repeated Dr. Heidegger, “ may I 
reckon on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious 
experiment? ” 

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, 
whose eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousand fan- 
tastic stories. Some of these fables, to my shame be it spoken, 
might possibly be traced back to mine own veracious self ; and 
if any passages of the present tale should startle the reader’s 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 


267 


faith, I must be content to bear the stigma of a fiction- 
monger. 

When the doctor’s four guests heard him talk of his pro- 
posed experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful 
than the murder of a mouse in an air-pump, or the examina- 
tion of a cobweb by the' microcope, or some similar nonsense, 
with which he was constantly in the habit of pestering his 
intimates. But without waiting for a reply, Dr. Heidegger 
hobbled across the chamber, and returned with the same pon- 
derous folio, bound in black leather, which common report 
affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, 
he opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter 
pages a rose, or what was once a rose, though now the green 
leaves and crimson petals had assumed one brownish hue, and 
the ancient flower seemed ready to crumble to dust in the 
doctor’s hands. 

“ This rose,” said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, “ this same 
withered and crumbling flower, blossomed five-and-fifty years 
ago. It was given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs 
yonder; and I meant to wear it in my bosom at our wed- 
ding. Five-and-fifty years it has been treasured between 
the leaves of this old volume. Now, would you deem it pos- 
sible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom 
again ? ” 

“Nonsense!” said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish 
toss of her head. “ You might as well ask whether an old 
woman’s wrinkled face could ever bloom again.” 

“ See !” answered Dr. Heidegger. 

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the 
water which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on the sur- 
face of the fluid, appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. 
Soon, however, a singular change began to be visible. The 


268 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


crushed and dried petals stirred, and assumed a deepening 
tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving from a death- 
like slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage became 
green ; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as 
fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It 
was scarcely full-blown ; for some of its delicate red leaves 
curled modestly around its moist bosom, within which two or 
three dew-drops were sparkling. 

“ That is certainly a very pretty deception,” said the doc- 
tor’s friends ; carelessly, however, for they had witnessed 
greater miracles at a conjuror’s show; “pray how was it 
effected ? ” 

“ Did you never hear of the ‘ Fountain of Youth,’ ” asked 
Dr. Heidegger, “ which Ponce de Leon, the Spanish adven- 
turer, went in search of, two or three centuries ago ? ” 

“ But did Ponce de Leon ever find it ? ” said the Widow 
Wycherly. 

“ No,” answered Dr. Heidegger, “ for he never sought it 
in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I 
am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the 
Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its source 
is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias, which, though 
numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets, 
by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of 
mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me 
what you see in the vase.” 

“Ahem ! ” said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word 
of the doctor’s story ; “ and what may be the effect of this 
fluid on the human frame?” 

“You shall judge for yourself, my dear Colonel,” replied 
Dr. Heidegger; “and all of you, my respected friends, are 
welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore 


DR.’ HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 


269 


to you the bloom of youth. For my own part, having had 
much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow 
young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely 
watch the progress of the experiment.” 

While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four 
champagne-glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. 
It was apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for 
little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths of the 
glasses, and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. As the 
liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not 
that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties ; and, 
though utter skeptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were 
inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought 
them to stay a moment. 

“ Before you drink, my respectable old friends,” said he, “ it 
would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to di- 
rect you, you should draw up a few general rules for your 
guidance, in passing a second time through the perils of youth. 
Think what a sin and shame it wduld be, if, with your pe- 
culiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue 
and wisdom to all the young people of the age.” 

The doctor’s four venerable friends made him no an- 
swer, except by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridi- 
culous was the idea, that, knowing how closely repentance 
treads behind the steps of error, they should ever go astray 
again. 

“ Drink, then,” said the doctor, bowing. “ I rejoice that I 
have so well selected the subjects of my experiment.” 

With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. 
The liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heideg- 
ger imputed to it, could not have been bestowed on four human 
beings who needed it more wofully. They looked as if they 


t 

270 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


had never known what youth or pleasure was, but had been 
the offspring of Nature’s dotage, and always the gray, decrepit, 
sapless, miserable creatures who now sat stooping round the 
doctor’s table, without life enough in their souls or bodies 
to be animated even by the prospect of growing young again. 
They drank off the water, and replaced their glasses on the 
table. 

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in 
the aspect of the party, not unlike what might have been pro- 
duced by a glass of generous wine, together with a sudden 
glow of cheerful sunshine, brightening over all their visages 
at once. There was a healthful suffusion on their cheeks, in- 
stead of the ashen hue that had made them look so corpse- 
like. They gazed at one another, and fancied that some magic 
power had really begun to smooth away the deep and sad 
inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving 
on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for 
she felt almost like a woman again. 

“vGive us more of this wondrous water!” cried they, eagerly. 

“We are younger, — but we are still too old! Quick, — • 
give us more ! ” 

“ Patience, patience ! ” quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watch- 
ing the experiment, with philosophic coolness. “ You have 
been a long time growing old. Surely, you might be content 
to grow young in half an hour! But the water is at your 
service.” 

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough 
of which still remained hi the vase to turn half the old peo- 
ple in the city to the age of their own grandchildren. While 
the bubbles were yet sparkling on the brim, the doctor’s four 
guests snatched their glasses from the table, and swallowed 
the contents at a single gulp. Was it delusion? even while 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 


271 


the draught was passing down, their throats, it seemed to 
have wrought a change on their whole systems. Their eyes 
grew clear and bright ; a dark shade deepened among their 
silvery locks; they sat around the table, three gentlemen of 
middle age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime. 

“ My dear widow, you are charming ! ” cried Colonel Killi- 
grew, whose eyes had been, fixed upon her face, while the 
shadows of age were flitting from it like darkness from the 
crimson daybreak. 

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew’s com- 
pliments were not always measured by sober truth ; so she 
started up and ran to the mirror, still dreading that the ugly 
visage of an old woman would meet her gaze. Meanwhile, 
the three gentlemen behaved in such a manner, as proved that 
the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed sopie intoxicat- 
ing qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of spirits were 
merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden removal 
of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne’s mind seemed to run 
on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present, or 
future, could not easily be determined, since the same ideas 
and phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he 
rattled forth full-throated sentences about patriotism, national 
glory, and the people’s right ; now he muttered some perilous 
stuff or other, in a sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously 
that even his own conscience could scarcely catch the secret; 
and now, again, he spoke in measured accents, and a deeply 
deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening to his well- 
turned periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been 
trolling forth a jolly bottle-song, and ringing his glass in 
symphony with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the 
buxom figure of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of 
the table, Mr. Medbourne was involved in a calculation of 


272 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


dollars and cents, with which was strangely intermingled a 
project for supplying the East Indies with ice, by harnessing 
a team of whales to the polar icebergs. 

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror 
courtseying and simpering to her own image, and greeting it 
as the friend whom she loved better than all the world beside. 
She thrust her face close to the glass, to see whether some 
long-remembered wrinkle or crow’s-foot had indeed vanished. 
She examined whether the snow had so entirely melted from 
her hair, that the venerable cap could be safely thrown aside. 
At last, turning briskly away, she came with a sort of danc- 
ing step to the table. 

“ My dear old doctor,” cried she, “ pray favor me with 
another glass ! ” 

“ Certainly, my dear madam, certainly ! ” replied the com- 
plaisant doctor; “see! I have already filled the glasses.” 

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this won- 
derful- water, the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced 
from the surface, resembled the tremulous glitter of dia- 
monds. It was now so nearly sunset that the chamber had 
grown duskier than ever; but a mild and moon-like splendor 
gleamed from within the t vase, and rested alike on the four 
guests, and on the doctor’s venerable figure. He sat in a high- 
backed, elaborately-carved oaken arm-chair, with a gray dig- 
nity of aspect that might have well befitted that very Fa- 
ther Time, whose power had never been disputed, save by 
this fortunate company. Even while quaffing the third draught 
of the Fountain of Youth, th^y were almost awed by the 
expression of his mysterious visage. 

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life 
shot through their veins. They were now in the happy prime 
of youth. Age, with its miserable train of cares, and sorrows, 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 


273 


and diseases, was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, 
from which they had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of tht 
soul, so early lost, and without which the world’s successive 
scenes had been but a gallery of faded pictures, again threw 
its enchantment over all their prospects. They felt like new- 
created beings, in a new-created universe. 

“We are young! We are young! ” they cried exultingly. 

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly 
marked characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated 
them all. They were a group of merry youngsters, almost 
maddened with the exuberant frolicksomeness of their years. 
The most singular effect of their gaiety was an impulse to 
mock the infirmity and decrepitude of which they had so 
lately been the victims. They laughed loudly at their old- 
fashioned attir.e, the wide-skirted coats and flapped waist- 
coats of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the 
blooming girl. One limped across the floor, like a gouty 
grandfather; one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose, 
and pretended to pore over the black letter pages of the book 
of magic ; a third seated himself in an arm-chair, and strove 
to imitate the venerable dignity of Dr. Heidegger. Then 
all shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the room. The 
Widow Wycherly — if so fresh a damsel could be called a 
widow — tripped up to the doctor’s chair, with a mischievous 
merriment in her rosy face. 

“ Doctor, you dear old soul,” cried she, “ get up and dance 
with me ! ” And then the four young people laughed louder 
than ever, to think what a queer figure the poor old doctor 
would cut. 

“ Pray excuse me,” answered the doctor, quietly. “ I am 
old and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago 


274 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


But either of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so 
pretty a partner.” 

“ Dance with me, Clara ! ” cried Colonel Killigrew. 

*' No, no, I will be her partner ! ” shouted Mr. Gascoigne. 

“ She promised me her hand, fifty years ago ! ” exclaimed 
Mr. Medbourne. 

They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands 
in his passionate grasp, — another threw his arm about her 
waist, — the third buried his hand among the glossy curls 
that clustered beneath the widow’s cap. Blushing, panting, 
struggling, chiding, laughing, her warm breath fanning each 
of their faces by turns, she strove to disengage herself, yet 
still remained in their triple embrace. Never was there a 
livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty 
for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the dusk- 
iness of the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still 
wore, the tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the 
three old, gray, withered grandsires, ridiculously contending 
for the skinny ugliness of a shrivelled grandam. 

But they were young: their burning passions proved them 
so. Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, 

i 

who neither granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three 
rivals began to interchange threatening glances. Still keep- 
ing hold of the fair prize, they grappled fiercely at one an- 
other’s throats. As they struggled to and fro, the table was 
overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand fragments. 
The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream across 
the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown 
old in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The 
insect fluttered lightly through the chamber, and settled on 
the snowy head of Dr. Heidegger. 

“ Come, come, gentlemen ! — come, Madam Wycherly,” ex- 


DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 


275 


claimed the doctor, “ I really must protest against this riot.” 

They stood still and shivered ; for it seemed as if gray Time 
were calling them back from their sunny youth, far down 
into the chill and darksome vale of years. They looked at 
old Dr. Heidegger, who sat in his carved arm-chair, holding 
the rose of half a century, which he had rescued from among 
the fragments of the shattered vase. At the motion of his 
hand, the four rioters resumed their seats; the more readily, 
because their violent exertions had wearied them, youthful 
though they were. 

“My poor Sylvia’s rose!” ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, hold- 
ing it in the light of the sunset clouds ; “ it appears to be 
fading again.” 

And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, 
the flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and 
fragile as when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. 
He shook off the few drops of moisture which clung to its 
petals. 

“ I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness,” observed 
he, pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While 
he spoke, the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor’s snowy 
head, and fell upon the floor. 

His guests shivered again. A strange chillness, whether 
of the body or spirit they could not tell, was creeping grad- 
ually over them all. They gazed at one another, and fancied 
that each fleeting moment snatched away a charm, and left a 
deepening furrow where none had been before. Was it an 
illusion? Had the changes of a life-time been crowded into 
so brief a space, and were they now four aged people, sit- 
ting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger? 

“ Are we grown old again, so soon ! ” cried they, dole- 
fully. 


276 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely 
a virtue more transient than that of wine. The delirium 
which it created had effervesced away. Yes ! they were old 
again. With a shuddering impulse, that showed her a woman 
still, the widow clasped her skiftny hands before her face, 

and wished that the coffin-lid were over it, since it could be 

no longer beautiful. 

“Yes, friends, ye are old again,” said Dr. Heidegger; 

“and lo! the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. 

Well, — I bemoan it not; for if the fountain gushed at my 
very doorstep, I would not stoop to bathe my lips in it; — no, 
though its delirium were for years instead of moments. Such 
is the lesson ye have taught me ! ” 

But the doctor’s four friends had taught no such lesson 
to themselves. They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrim- 
age to Florida, and quaff at morning, noon, and night from 
the Fountain of Youth. 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 

howe's MASQUERADE. 

[“A phantom of the old royal governors, or some such 
shadowy pageant, on the night of the evacuation of Boston by 
the British .” — American Note-Books, p. 212.] 

One afternoon last summer, while walking along Wash- 
ington Street, my eye was attracted by a sign-board protrud- 
ing over a narrow archway nearly opposite the Old South 
Church. The sign represented the front of a stately edifice 
which was designated as the “ Old Province House, kept by 
Thomas Waite.” I was glad to be thus reminded of a pur- 
pose, long entertained, of visiting and rambling over the man- 
sion of the old royal governors of Massachusetts, and, enter- 
ing the arched passage which penetrated through the middle 
of a brick row of shops, a few steps transported me from the 
busy heart of modern Boston into a small and secluded court- 
yard. One side of this space was occupied by the square front 
of the Province House, three stories high and surmounted by a 
cupola, on the top of which a gilded Indian was discernible, 
with his bow bent and his arrow on the string, as if aiming 
at the weathercock on the spire of the Old South. The fig- 
ure has kept this attitude for seventy years or more, ever 
since good Deacon Drowne, a cunning carver of wood, first 
stationed him on his long sentinel’s watch over the city. 

The Province House is constructed of brick, which Seems 
recently to have been overlaid with a coat of light-colored 

277 


278 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


paint. A flight of red freestone steps fenced in by a balus- 
trade of curiously wrought iron ascends from the court- 
yard to the spacious porch, over which is a balcony with an 
iron balustrade of similar pattern and workmanship to that 
beneath. These letters and figures — “ 16 P. S. 79” — are 
wrought into the ironwork of the balcony, and probably ex- 
press the date of the edifice, with the initials of its founder’s 
name. 

A wide door with double leaves admitted me into the 
hall or entry, on the right of which is the entrance to the 
bar-room. It was in this apartment, I presume, that the an- 
cient governors held their levees with vice-regal pomp, sur- 
rounded by the military men, the counsellors, the judges, and 
other officers of the Crown, while all the loyalty of the prov- 
ince thronged to do them honor. But the room in its pres- 
ent condition cannot boast even of faded magnificence. The 
panelled wainscot is covered with dingy paint and acquires a 
duskier hue from the deep shadow into which the Province 
House is thrown by the brick block that shuts it in from 
Washington Street. A ray of sunshine never visits this apart- 
ment any more than the glare of the festal torches which 
have been extinguished from the era of the Revolution. The 
most venerable and ornamental object is a chimney-piece set 
round with Dutch tiles of blue-figured china, representing 
scenes from Scripture, and, for aught I know, the lady of 
Pownall* or Bernard may have sat beside this fireplace and 
told her children the story of each blue tile. A bar in mod- 
ern style, well replenished with decanters, bottles, cigar-boxes 
and network bags of lemons, and provided with a beer-pump 
and a soda-fount, extends along one side of the room. 


* Thomas Pownell. For this and other historical names referred to in 
the text, see the Century Dictionary of Names. 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 


271 


At my entrance an elderly person was smacking his lips with 
a zest which satisfied me that the cellars of the Province 
House still hold good liquor, though doubtless of other vint- 
ages than were quaffed by the old governors. After sipping 
a glass of port-sangaree prepared by the skilful hands of Mr. 
Thomas Waite, I besought that worthy successor and rep- 
resentative of so many historic personages to condtjct me over 
their time-honored mansion. He readily complied, but, to 
confess the truth, I was forced to draw strenuously upon my 
imagination in order to find aught that was interesting in 
a house which, without its historic associations, would have 
seemed merely such a tavern as is usually favored by the cus- 
tom of decent city boarders and old-fashioned country gen- 
tlemen. The chambers, which were probably spacious in for- 
mer times, are now cut up by partitions and subdivided into 
little nooks, each affording scanty room for the narrow bed 
and chair and dressing-table of a single lodger. The great 
staircase, however, may be termed, without much hyperbole, 
a feature of grandeur and magnificence. It winds through the 
midst of the house by flights of broad steps, each flight term- 
inating in a square landing-place whence the ascent is continued 
toward the cupola. A carved balustrade, freshly painted in 
the lower stories, but growing dingier as we ascend, borders 
the staircase with its quaintly twisted and intertwined pil- ’ 
lars, from top to bottom. Up these stairs the military boots, 
or perchance the gouty shoes, of many a governor haye trod- 
den as the wearers mounted to the cupola which afforded them 
so wide a view over their metropolis and the surrounding 
country. The cupola is an octagon with several windows, and 
a door opening upon the roof. From this station, as 1 
pleased myself with imagining, Gage may have beheld hi* 
disastrous victory on Bunker Hill (unless on' 1 of the tri- 


280 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


mountains intervened), and Howe have marked the approaches 
of Washington’s besieging army, although the buildings since 
erected in the vicinity have shut out almost every object save 
the steeple of the Old South, which seems almost within 
arm’s length. Descending from the cupola, I paused in the 
garret to observe the ponderous white-oak framework, so much 
more massive than the frames of modern houses, and thereby 
resembling an antique skeleton. The brick walls, the mate- 
rials of which were imported from Holland, and the tim- 
bers of the mansion, are still as sound as ever, but, the 
floors and other interior parts being greatly decayed, it is 
contemplated to gut the whole and build a new house within 
the ancient frame and brickwork. Among other inconve- 
niences of the present edifice, mine host mentioned that any 
jar or motion was apt to shake down the dust of ages 
out of the ceiling of one chamber upon the floors of that 
beneath it. 

We stepped forth from the great front window into the 
balcony where in old times it was doubtless the custom of 
the king’s representative to show himself to a loyal popu- 
lace, requiting their huzzas and tossed-up hats with stately 
bendings of his dignified person. In those days the front 
of the Province House looked upon the street, and the whole 
site now occupied by the brick range of stores, as well as the 
present court-yard, was laid out in grass-plats overshad- 
owed by trees and bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Now 
the old aristocratic edifice hides its time-worn visage behind 
an upstart modern building; at one of the back windows I 
observed some pretty tailoresses sewing and chatting and 
laughing, with now and then a careless glance toward the 
balcony. Descending thence, we again entered the bar-room, 
where the elderly gentleman above mentioned — the smack 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 281 


of whoseUips had spoken so favorably for Mr. Waite’s good 
liquor — was still lounging in his chair. He seemed to be, 
if not a lodger, at least a familiar visitor of the house who 
might be supposed to have his regular score at the bar, his 
summer seat at the open window and his prescriptive corner 
at the winter’s fireside. Being of a sociable aspect, I ven- 
tured to address him with a remark calculated to draw forth 
his historical reminiscences, if any such were in his mind, 
and it gratified me to discover that, between memory and 
tradition, the old gentleman was really possessed of some 
very pleasant gossip about the Province House. The por- 
tion of his talk which chiefly interested me was the outline 
of the following legend. He professed to have received it at 
one or two removes from an eye-witness, but this derivation, 
together with the lapse of time, must have afforded oppor- 
tunities for many variations of the narrative ; so that, de- 
spairing of literal and absolute truth, I have not scrupled to 
make such further changes as seemed conducive to the 
reader’s profit and delight. 

At one of the entertainments given at the Province House 
during the latter part of the siege of Boston there passed a 
scene which has never yet been satisfactorily explained. The 
officers of the British army and the loyal gentry of the prov- 
ince, most of whom were collected within the beleaguered 
town, had been invited to a masqued ball, for it was the policy 
for Sir William Howe to hide the distress and danger of the 
period and the desperate aspecb of the siege under an osten- 
tation of festivity. The spectacle of this evening, if the 
oldest members of the provincial court circle might be be- 
lieved, was the most gay and gorgeous affair that had oc- 
curred in the annals of the government. The brilliantly- 
lighted apartments were thronged with figures that seemec 


282 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


to have stepped from the dark canvas of historic portraits 
«r to have flitted forth from the magic pages of romance, 
or at least to have flown hither from one of the London 
theatres without a change of garments. Steeled knights of 
the Conquest, bearded statesmen of Queen Elizabeth and 
high ruffed ladies of her court were mingled with charac- 
ters of comedy, such as a parti-colored Merry Andrew jing- 
ling his cap and bells, a Falstaff almost as provocative of 
laughter as his prototype, and a Don Quixote with a bean-pole 
for a lance and a pot-lid for a shield. 

But the broadest merriment was excited by a group of 
figures ridiculously dressed in old regimentals which seemed 
to have been purchased at a military rag-fair or pilfered 
from some receptacle of the cast-off clothes of both the 
French and British armies. Portions of their attire had 
probable been worn at the siege of Louisburg, and the coats 
of most recent cut might have been rent and tattered by 
sword, ball or bayonet as long ago as Wolfe’s victory. One 
of these worthies — a tall, lank figure brandishing a rusty 
sword of immense longitude — purported to be no less a 
personage than General George Washington, and the other 
principal officers of the American army, such as Gates, Lee, 
Putnam, Schuyler, Ward and Heath, were represented by 
similar scarecrows. An interview in the mock-heroic style 
between the rebel warriors and the British commander-in- 
chief was received with immense applause, which came 
loudest of all from the loyalists of the colony. 

There was one of the guests, however, who stood apart, 
eyeing these antics sternly and scornfully at once with a 
frown and a bitter smile. It was an old man formerly of 
high station and great repute in the province, and who had 
been a very famous soldier in his day. Some surprise had 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 


283 


been expressed that a person of Colonel Joliffe’s known Whig 
principles, though now too old to take .an active part in the 
contest, should have remained in Boston during the siege, 
and especially that he should consent to show himself in the 
mansion of Sir William Howe. But thither he had come 
with a fair granddaughter under his arm, and there, amid 
all the mirth and buffoonery, stood this stern old figure, the 
best-sustained character in the masquerade, because so well 
representing the antique spirit of his native land. The other 
guests affirmed that Colonel Joliffe’s black puritanical scowl 
threw a shadow round about him, although, in spite of his 
sombre influence, their gayety continued to blaze higher, like 
— an ominous comparison — the flickering brilliancy of a 
lamp which has but a little while to burn. 

Eleven strokes full half an hour ago had pealed from the 
clock of the Old South, when a rumor was circulated among 
the company that some new spectacle or pageant was about to 
be exhibited which should put a fitting close to the splendid 
festivities of the night. 

“What new jest has Your Excellency in hand?” asked the 
Reverend Mather Byles, whose Presbyterian scruples had 
not kept him from the entertainment. “Trust me, sir, I have 
already laughed more than beseems my cloth at your Homeric 
confabulation with yonder ragamuffin general of the rebels. 
One other such fit of merriment, and I must throw off my 
clerical wig and band.” 

“Not so, good Dr. Byles,” answered Sir William Howe; 
•*' if mirth were a crime, you had never gained your doctorate 
in divinity. As to this new foolery, I know no more about it 
than yourself — perhaps not so much. Honestly, now, doc- 
tor, have von not stirred up the sober brains of some of 
your countrymen to enact a scene in our masquerade ? 


284 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ Perhaps,” slyly remarked the granddaughter of Colonel 
Joliffe, whose high spirits had been stung by many taunts 
against New England — “perhaps we are to have a masque 
of allegorical figures — Victory with trophies from Lexington 
and Bunker Hill, Plenty with her overflowing horn to typify 
the present abundance in this good town, and Glory with a 
wreath for His Excellency’s brow.” 

Sir William Howe smiled at words which he would have 
answered with one of his darkest frowns had they been ut- 
tered by lips that wore a beard. He was spared the neces- 
sity of a retort by a singular interruption. A sound of 
music was heard without the house, as if proceeding from a 
full band of military instruments stationed in the street, 
playing, not such a festal strain as was suited to the occasion, 
but a slow funeral-march. The drums appeared to be 
muffled, and the trumpets poured forth a wailing breath 
which at once hushed the merriment of the auditors, filling all 
with wonder and some with apprehension. The idea oc- 
curred to many that either the funeral procession of some 
great personage had halted in front of the Province House, 
or that a corpse in a velvet-covered and gorgeously-deco- 
rated coffin was about to be borne from the portal. After 
listening a moment, Sir William Howe called in a stern voice 
to the leader of the musicians, who had hitherto enlivened 
the entertainment with gay and lightsome melodies. The 
man was drum-major to one of the British regiments. 

“ Dighton,” demanded the general, “ What means this fool- 
ery?” Bid your band silence that dead march, or, by my 
word, they shall have sufficient cause for their lugubrious 
strains. Silence it, sirrah!” 

“ Please, Your Honor,” answered the drum-major, whose 
rubicund visage had lost all its color, “the fault is none of 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 285 


mine. I and my band are all here together, and I question 
whether there be a man of us that could play that march 
without book. I never heard it but once before, and that was 
at the funeral of his late Majesty, King George II.” 

“ Well, well !” said Sir William Howe, recovering his com- 
posure ; “ it is the prelude to some masquerading antic. Let 
it pass.” 

A figure now presented itself, but among the many fantas- 
tic masks that were dispersed through the apartments none 
could tell precisely from whence it came. It was a man in 
an old-fashioned dress of black serge and having the aspect of 
a steward or principal domestic in the household of a noble- 
man or great English landholder. This figure advanced to 
the outer door of the mansion, and, throwing both its leaves 
wide open, withdrew a little to one side and looked back toward 
the grand staircase, as if expecting some person to descend. 
At the same time, the music in the street sounded a loud and 
doleful summons. The eyes of Sir William Howe and his 
guests being directed to the staircase, there appeared on the 
uppermost landing-place, that was discernible from the bot- 
tom, several personages descending toward the door. The 
foremost was a man of stern visage, wearing a steeple- 
crowned hat and a skull-cap beneath it, a dark cloak and 
huge wrinkled boots that came halfway up his legs. Under 
his arm was a rolled-up banner which seemed to be the ban- 
ner of England, but strangely rent and torn ; he had a 
sword in his right hand and grasped a Bible in his left. The 
next figure was of milder aspect, yet full of dignity, wearing 
a broad ruff, over which descended a beard, a gown of 
wrought velvet and a doublet and hose of black satin ; he 
carried a roll of manuscript in his hand. Close behind these 
two came a young man of very striking countenance and 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


286 

demeanor with deep thought and contemplation on his brow, 
and perhaps a flash of enthusiasm in his eye; his garb, like 
that of his predecessors, was of an antique fashion, and there 
was a stain of blood upon his ruff. In the same group with 
these were three or four others, all men of dignity and evi- 
dent command, and bearing themselves like personages who 
were accustomed to the gaze of the multitude. It was the 
idea of the beholders that these figures went to join the 
mysterious funeral that had halted in front of the Province 
House, yet that supposition seemed to be contradicted by the 
air of triumph with which they waved their hands as they 
crossed the threshold and vanished through the portal. 

“In the devil’s name, what is this?” muttered Sir William 
Howe to a gentleman beside him. “A procession of the 
regicide judges of King Charles the martyr?” 

“ These,” said Colonel Joliffe, breaking silence almost for the 
first time that evening — “these, if I interpret them aright, 
are the Puritan governors, the rulers of the old original de- 
mocracy of Massachusetts — Endicott with the banner from 
which he had torn the symbol of subjection, and Winthrop 
and Sir Henry Vane and Dudley, Haynes, Bellingham and 
Leverett.” 

“ Why had that young man a stain of blood upon his ruff ?” 
asked Miss Joliffe. 

“ Because in after years,” answered her grandfather, “ he 
laid down the wisest head in England upon the block for the 
principles of liberty.” 

“Will not your Excellency order out the guard?” whis- 
pered Lord Percy, who, with other British officers, had now 
assembled round the general. “ There may be a plot under 
this mummery.” 

“Tush! we have nothing to fear,” carelessly replied Sir 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 28 ? 


William Howe. “There can be no worse treason in the mat* 
ter than a jest, and that somewhat of the dullest. Even were 
it a sharp and bitter one, our best policy would be to laugh 
it off. See ! here come more of these gentry.” 

Another group of characters had now partly descended the 
staircase. The first was a venerable and white-bearded pa- 
triarch who cautiously felt his way downward with a staff. 
Treading hastily behind him, and stretching forth his gaunt* 
leted hand as if to grasp the old man’s shoulder, came a tall 
soldier-like figure equipped with a plumed cap of steel, a 
bright breast-plate and a long sword, which rattled against the 
stairs. Next was seen a stout man dressed in rich and courtly 
attire, but not of courtly demeanor; his gait had the swing- 
ing motion of a seaman’s walk, and, chancing to stumble 
on the staircase, he suddenly grew wrathful and was heard 
to mutter an oath. He was followed by a noble-looking per- 
sonage in a curled wig such as are represented in the por- 
traits of Queen Anne’s time and earlier, and the breast of his. 
coat was decorated with an embroidered star. While ad- 
vancing to the door he bowed to the right hand and to the 
left in a very gracious and insinuating style, but as he crossed 
the threshold, unlike the early Puritan governors, he seemed 
to wring his hands with sorrow. 

“ Prithee, play the part of a chorus, good Dr. Byles,” said 
Sir William Howe. “What worthies are these?” 

“ If it please Your Excellency, they lived somewhat before 
my day,” answered the doctor ; “ but doubtless our friend the 
colonel has been hand and glove with them.” 

“Their living faces I never looked upon,” said Colonel 
Joliffe, gravely; although I have spoken face to face with 
many rulers of this land, and shall greet yet another with an 
old man’s blessing ere I die. But we talk of these figures. 


288 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


I take the venerable patriarch to be Bradstreet, the last of 
the Puritans, who was governor at ninety or thereabouts. 
The next is Sir Edmund Andros, a tyrant, as any New Eng- 
land schoolboy will tell you, and therefore the people cast 
him down from his high seat into a dungeon. Then comes 
Sir William Phipps, shepherd, cooper, sea captain and gov- 
ernor. May many of his countrymen rise as high from as 
low an origin ! Lastly, you saw the gracious Earl of Bella- 
mont, who ruled us under King William.” 

“ But what is the meaning of it all” asked Lord Percy. 

“ Now, were I a rebel,” said Miss Joliffe, half aloud, “ I 
might fancy that the ghosts of these ancient governors had 
been summoned to form the funeral procession of royal au- 
thority in New England.” 

Several other figures were now seen at the turn of the stair- 
case. The one in advance had a thoughtful, anxious and 
somewhat crafty expression of face, and in spite of his lofti- 
ness of manner, which was evidently the result both of an 
ambitious spirit and of long continuance in high stations, he 
seemed not incapable of cringing to a greater than himself. 
A few steps behind came an officer in a scarlet and embroid- 
ered uniform cut in a fashion old enough to have been worn 
by the Duke of Marlborough. His nose had a rubicund tinge, 
which, together with the twinkle of his eye, might have 
marked him as a lover of the wine-cup and good-fellowship ; 
nothwithstanding which tokens, he appeared ill at ease, and 
often glanced around him as if apprehensive of some secret 
mischief. Next came a portly gentleman wearing a coat of 
shaggy cloth lined with silken velvet ; he had sense, shrewd- 
ness and humor in his face and a folio under his arm, but his 
aspect was that of a man vexed and tormented beyond all 
patience and harassed almost to death. He went hastily 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 289 

down and was followed by a dignified person dressed in a 
purple velvet suit with very rich embroidery; his demeanor 
would have possessed much stateliness, only that a grievous 
fit of the gout compelled him to hobble from stair to stair 
with contortions of face and body. When Dr. Byles beheld 
this figure on the staircase, he shivered as with an ague, but- 
continued to watch him steadfastly until the gouty gentleman 
had reached the threshold, made a gesture of anguish and de- 
spair and vanished into the outer gloom, whither the funeral 
music summoned him. 

" Governor Belcher — my old patron — in his very shape 
and dress!” gasped Dr. Byles. “This is an awful mockery.” 

“A tedious foolery, rather,” said Sir William Howe, with 
an air of indifference. “ But who were the three that pre- 
ceded him.” 

“ Governor Dudley, a cunning politician ; yet his craft once 
brought him to a prison,” replied Colonel Joliffe. “ Gover- 
nor Shute, formerly a colonel under Marlborough, and whom 
the people frightened out of the province, and learned Gov- 
ernor Burnet, whom the legislature tormented into a mortal 
fever.” 

“ Methinks they were miserable men — these royal gover- 
nors of Massachusetts,” observed Miss Joliffe. “ Heavens !' 
how dim the light grows !” 

It was certainly a fact that the large lamp which illumi- 
nated the staircase now burned dim and duskily ; so that sev- 
eral figures which passed hastily down the stairs and went 
forth from the porch appeared rather like shadows than per- 
sons of fleshly substance. 

Sir William Howe and his guests stood at the doors of the 
contiguous apartments watching the progress of this singular 
pageant with various emotions of anger, contempt or half- 


290 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


acknowledged fear, but still with an anxious curiosity. The 
shapes which now seemed hastening to join the mysterious 
procession were recognized rather by striking peculiarities of 
dress or broad characteristics of manner than by any per- 
ceptible resemblance of features to their prototypes. Their 
faces, indeed, were invariably kept in deep shadow, but Dr. 
Byles and other gentlemen who had long been familiar with 
the successive rulers of the province were heard to whisper 
the names of Shirley, Pownall, of Sir Francis Bernard, and 
of the well-remembered Hutchinson, thereby confessing that 
the actors, whoever they might be, in this spectral march of 
governors had succeeded in putting on some distant por- 
traiture of the real personages. As they vanished from the 
door, still did these shadows toss their arms into the gloom of 
night with a dread expression of woe. Following the mimic 
representative of Hutchinson came a military figure holding 
"before his face the cocked hat which he had taken from his 
powdered head, but his epaulettes and other insignia of rank 
were those of a general officer, and something in his mien 
reminded the beholders of one who had recently been master 
of the Province House and chief of all the land. 

“The shape of Gage, as true as in a looking-glass!” ex- 
claimed Lord Percy, turning pale. 

“ No surely,” cried Miss Joliffe, laughing hysterically, “ it 
could not be Gage, or Sir William would have greeted his old 
comrade in arms. Perhaps he will not suffer the next to 
pass unchallenged.” 

“ Of that be assured, young lady,” answered Sir William 
Howe, fixing his eyes with a very marked expression upon 
the immovable visage of her grandfather “ I have long 
enough delayed to pay the ceremonies of a host to these de- 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 291 


parting guests ; the next that takes his leave shall receive due 
courtesy.” 

A wild and dreary burst of music came through the open 
door. It seemed as if the procession, which had been gradu- 
ally filling up its ranks, were now about to move, and that this 
loud peal of the wailing trumpets and roll of the muffled 
drums were a call to some loiterer to make haste. Many eyes, 
by an irresistible impulse, were turned upon Sir William 
Howe, as if it were he whom the dreary music summoned to 
the funeral of departed power. 

“ See! here comes the last,” whispered Miss Joliffe, pointing 
her tremulous finger to the staircase. 

A figure had come into view as if descending the stairs, 
although so dusky was the region whence it emerged some 
of the spectators fancied they had seen this human shape 
suddenly moulding itself amid the gloom. Downward the 
figure came with a stately and martial tread, and reaching the 
lowest stair, was observed to be a tall man booted and 
wrapped in a military cloak, which was drawn up around 
the face so as to. meet the flapped brim of a laced hat; the 
features, therefore, were completely hidden. But the British 
officers deemed that they had seen that military cloak before, 
and even recognized the frayed embroidery on the collar, as 
well as the gilded scabbard of a sword which protruded from 
the folds of the cloak and glittered in a vivid gleam of light. 
Apart from these trifling particulars there were character- 
istics of gait and bearing which compelled the wondering 
guests to glance from the shrouded figure to Sir William 
Howe as if to satisfy themselves that their host had not sud- 
denly vanished from the midst of them. With a dark flush of 
wrath upon his brow, they saw the general draw his sword 


292 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and advance to meet the figure in the cloak before the latter 
had stepped one pace upon the floor. 

“Villain, unmuffle yourself!” cried he. “You pass no far- 
ther.” 

The figure, without blenching a hair’s breadth from the 
sword which was lowered at his breast, made a solemn pause 
and lowered the cape of the cloak from about his face, yet not 
sufficiently for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir 
William Howe had evidently seen enough. The sternness 
of his countenance gave place to a look , of wild amazement, 
if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure 
and let fall his sword upon the floor. The martial shape again 
•drew the cloak about his features and passed on, but, reach- 
ing the threshold with his back toward the spectators, he was 
seen to stamp his foot and shake his clenched hands in the 
air. It was afterward affirmed that Sir William Howe had 
repeated that self-same gesture of rage and sorrow when for 
the last time, and as the last royal governor, he passed 
through the portal of the Province House. 

“Hark! The procession moves,” said Miss Joliffe. The 
music was dying away along the street, and its dismal strains 
were mingled with the knell of midnight from the steeple of 
the Old South and with the roar of artillery which announced 
that the beleaguered army of Washington had intrenched itself 
upon a nearer height than before. As the deep boom of the 
cannon smote upon his ear Colonel Joliffe raised himself to 
the full height of his aged form and smiled sternly on the 
British general. 

“ Would Your Excellency inquire further into the mys- 
tery of the pageant?” said he. 

“Take care of your gray head!” cried Sir William Howe, 


LEGENDS OF THE PROVINCE HOUSE 


293 


fiercely, though with a quivering lip. “ It has stood too long 
on a traitor’s shoulders.” 

“You must make haste to chop it off, then,” calmly re- 
plied the colonel, “ for a few hours longer, and not all the 
power of Sir William Howe, nor of his master, shall cause 
one of these gray hairs to fall. The empire of Britain in this 
ancient province is at its last gasp to-night; almost while I 
speak it is a dead corpse, and methinks the shadows of the 
old governors are fit mourners at its funeral.” 

With these words Colonel Joliffe threw on his cloak, and, 
drawing his granddaughter’s arm within his own, retired 
from the last festival that a British ruler ever held in the old 
province of Massachusetts Bay. It was supposed that the 
colonel and the young lady possessed some secret intelligence 
in regard to the mysterious pageant of that night. However 
this might be, such knowledge has never become general. The 
actors in the scene have vanished into deeper obscurity than 
even that wild Indian band who scattered the cargoes of the 
tea ships on the waves and gained a place in history, yet left 
no names. But superstition, among other legends of this 
mansion, repeats the wondrous tale that on the anniversary 
night of Britain’s discomfiture the ghosts of the ancient gov- 
ernors of Massachusetts still glide through the portal of the 
Province House. And last of all comes a figure shrouded in 
a military cloak, tossing his clenched hands into the air and 
stamping his iron-shod boots upon the broad freestone steps 
with a semblance of feverish despair, but without the sound 
of a foot-tramp. 

When the truth-telling accents of the elderly gentleman 
were hushed, I drew a long breath and looked round the room, 
striving with the best energy of my imagination to throw a 
tinge of romance and historic grandeur over the realities of 


294 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


the scene. But my nostrils snuffed up a scent of cigar smoke, 
clouds of which the narrator had emitted by way of visible 
emblem. I suppose of the nebulous obscurity of his tale. 
Moreover, my gorgeous fantasies were wofully disturbed 
by the rattling of the spoon in a tumbler of whiskey punch 
which Mr. Thomas Waite was mingling for a customer. 
Nor did it add to the picturesque appearance of the panelled 
walls that the slate of the Brookline stage was suspended 
against them, instead of the armorial escutcheon of some far- 
descended governor. A stage driver sat at one of the win- 
dows reading a penny paper of the day — the Boston Times 
— and presenting a figure which could nowise be brought 
into any picture of “ Times in Boston ” seventy or a hun- 
dred years ago. On the window seat lay a bundle neatly 
done up in brown paper, the direction of which I had the 
idle curiosity to read : Miss Susan Huggins, at the Province 
House.” A pretty chambermaid, no doubt. In truth, it is 
desperately hard work when we attempt to throw the spell of 
hoar antiquity over localities with which the living world 
and the day that is passing over us have aught to do. Yet, 
as I glanced at the stately staircase down which the proces- 
sion of the old governors had descended, and as I emerged 
through the venerable portal whence their figures had pre- 
ceded me, it gladdened me to be conscious of a thrill of awe. 
Then, diving through the narrow, archway, a few strides 
transported me into the densest throng of Washington Street 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 

The old legendary guest of the Province House abode m 
my remembrance from midsummer till January. One idle 
evening last winter, confident that he would be found in the 
snuggest corner of the bar-room, I resolved to pay him another 
visit, hoping to deserve well of my country by snatching from 
oblivion some else unheard of fact of history. The night was 
chill and raw, and rendered boisterous by almost a gale of 
wind which whistled along Washington Street, causing the 
gaslights to flare and flicker within the lamps. 

As I hurried onward my fancy was busy with a compari- 
son between the present aspect of the street and that which 
it probably wore when the British governors inhabited the 
mansion whither I was now going. Brick edifices in those 
times were few till a succession of destructive fires had swept 
and swept again, the wooden dwellings and warehouses from 
the most populous quarters of the town. The buildings 
stood insulated and independent, not, as now, merging their 
separate existences into connected ranges with a front of tire- 
some identity, but each possessing features of its own, as if 
the owner’s individual taste had shaped it, and the whole pre- 
senting a picturesque irregularity the absence of which is 
hardly compensated by any beauties of our modern archi- 
tecture. Such a scene, dimly vanishing from the eye by the 
ray of here and there a tallow candle glimmering through the 
small panes of scattered windows, would form a sombre con- 

295 


296 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


trast to the street as I beheld it with the gaslights blazing 
from corner to corner, flaming within the shops and throwing 
a noonday brightness through the huge plates of glass. But 
the black, lowering sky, as I turned my eyes upward, wore, 
doubtless the same visage as when it frowned upon the ante- 
Revolutionary New Englanders. The wintry blast had the 
same shriek that was familiar to their ears. The Old South 
Church, too, still pointed its antique spire into the darkness 
and was lost between earth and heaven, and, as I passed, its 
clock, which had warned so many generations how transi- 
tory was their lifetime, spoke heavily and slow the same 
unregarded moral to myself. “ Only seven o’clock ! ” thought 
I. “ My old friend’s legends will scarcely kill the hours ’twixt 
this and bedtime.” 

Passing through the narrow arch, I crossed the court-yard, 
the confined precincts of which were made visible by a lan- 
tern over the portal of the Province House. On entering the 
bar-room, I found, as I expected, the old tradition-monger 
seated by a special good fire of anthracite, compelling clouds 
of smoke from a corpulent cigar. He recognized me with 
evident pleasure, for fny rare qualities as a patient listener 
invariably make me a favorite with elderly gentlemen and 
ladies of narrative propensities. Drawing a chair to the fire, 
I desired mine host to favor* us with a glass apiece of 
whiskey punch, which was speedily prepared, steaming hot, 
with a slice of lemon at the bottom, a dark red stratum of 
port wine upon the surface and a sprinkling of nutmeg 
strewn over all. As we touched our glasses together, my 
legendary friend made himself known to me as Mr. Bela 
Tiffany, and I rejoiced at the oddity of the name, because it 
gave his image and character a sort of individuality in my 
conception. The old gentleman’s draught acted as a solvent 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 


297 


upon his memory, so that it overflowed with tales, traditions, 
anecdotes of famous dead people and traits of ancient man- 
ners, some of which were childish as a nurse’s lullaby, while 
others might have been worth the notice of the grave his- 
torian. Nothing impressed me more than a story of a black 
mysterious picture which used to hang in one of the cham- 
bers of the Province House, directly above the room where 
we were now sitting. The following is as correct a version 
of the fact as the reader would be likely to obtain from any 
other source, although, assuredly,, it has a tinge of romance 
approaching to the marvellous. 

In one of the apartments of the Province House there was 
long preserved an ancient picture, the frame of which was 
as black as ebony, and the canvas itself so dark with age, 
damp and smoke that not a touch of the painter’s art could 
be discerned. Time had thrown an impenetrable veil over it 
and left to tradition and fable and conjecture to say what 
had once been there portrayed. During the rule of many 
successive governors it had hung, by prescriptive and undis- 
puted right, over the mantlepiece of the same chamber, and 
it still kept its place when Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson 
assumed the administration of the province on the departure 
of Sir Francis Bernard. 

The lieutenant-governor sat one afternoon resting his head 
against the carved back of his stately armchair and gazing 
up thoughtfully at the void blackness of the picture. It was 
scarcely a time for such inactive musing, when affairs of 
the deepest moment require the ruler’s decision ; for within 
that very hour Hutchinson had received intelligence of the 
arrival of a British fleet bringing three regiments from Hali- 
fax to overawe the insubordination of the people. These 
troops awaited his permission to Occupy the fortress of Castle 


298 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


William and the town itself, yet instead of affixing his signa- 
ture to an official order, there sat the lieutenant-governor so 
carefully scrutinizing the black waste of canvas that his de- 
meanor attracted the notice of two young persons who at- 
tended him. One, wearing a military dress of buff, was his 
kinsman, Francis Lincoln, the provincial captain of Castle 
William; the other, who sat on a low stool beside his chair, 
was Alice Vane, his favorite niece. She was clad entirely 
in white — a pale, ethereal creature who, though a native of 
New England, had been educated abroad and seemed not 
merely a stranger from another clime, but almost a being 
from another world. For several years, until left an orphan, 
she had dwelt with her father in sunny Italy, and there had 
acquired a taste and enthusiasm for sculpture and painting 
which she found few opportunities of gratifying in the un- 
decorated dwellings of the colonial gentry. It was said that 
the early productions of her own pencil exhibited no inferior 
genius, though perhaps the rude atmosphere of New Eng- 
land had cramped her hand and dimmed the glowing colors 
of her fancy. But, observing her uncle’s steadfast gaze, 
which appeared to search through the mist of years to dis- 
cover the subject of the picture, her curiosity was excited. 

“ Is it known, my dear uncle,” inquired she, “ what this 
old picture once represented? Possibly, could it be made 
visible, it might prove a masterpiece of some great artist; else 
why has it so long held such a conspicuous place?” 

As her uncle, contrary to his usual custom — for he was 
as attentive to all the humors and caprices of Alice as if she 
had been his own best-beloved child — did not immediately 
reply, the young captain of Castle William took that office 
upon himself. 

“ This dark old square of canvas, my fair cousin,” said he. 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 


299 


“has been an heirloom in the Province House from time im- 
memorial. As to the painter, I can tell you nothing ; but if 
half the stories told of it be true, not one of the great Italian 
masters has ever produced so marvellous a piece of work as 
that before you.” 

Captain Lincoln proceeded to relate some of the strange 
fables and fantasies which, as it was impossible to refute 
them by ocular demonstration, had grown to be articles of 
popular belief in reference to this old picture. One of the 
wildest and at the same time the best accredited accounts 
stated it to be an original and authentic portrait of the Evil 
One, taken at a witch meeting near Salem, and that its strong 
and terrible resemblance had been confirmed by several of the 
confessing wizards and witches at their trial in open court. 
It was likewise affirmed that a familiar spirit or demon 
abode behind the blackness of the picture, and had shown 
himself at seasons of public calamity to more than one of the 
royal governors. Shirley, for instance, had beheld this om- 
inous apparition on the eve of General Abercrombie’s shame- 
ful and bloody defeat under the walls of Ticonderoga. Many 
of the servants of the Province House had caught glimpses of 
a visage frowning down upon them at morning or evening 
twilight, or in the depths of night while raking up the fire 
that glimmered on the hearth beneath, although if any were 
bold enough to hold a torch before the picture, it would ap- 
pear as black and undistinguishable as ever. The oldest in- 
habitant of Boston recollected that his father — in whose days 
the portrait had not wholly faded out of sight — had one? 
looked upon it, but would never suffer himself to be ques- 
tioned as to the face which was there represented. In con- 
nection with such stories, it was remarkable that over the top 
of the frame there were some ragged remnants of black silk. 


300 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


indicating that a veil had formerly hung down before the 
picture until the duskiness of time had so effectually concealed 
it. But, after all, it was the most singular part of the affair 
that so many of the pompous governors of Massachusetts had 
allowed the obliterated picture to remain in the state chamber 
of the Province House. 

“ Some of these fables are really awful,” observed Alice 
Vane, who had occasionally shuddered as well as smiled 
while her cousin spoke. “ It would be almost worth while 
to wipe away the black surface of the canvas, since the original 
picture can hardly be so formidable as those which fancy 
paints instead of it.” 

' “ But would it be possible,” inquired her cousin, “ to re- 
store this dark picture to its pristine hues?” 

. “ Such arts are known in Italy,” said Alice. 

The lieutenant-governor had roused himself from his ab- 
stracted mood, and listened with a smile to the conversation 
of his young relatives. Yet his voice had something pe- 
culiar in its tones when he undertook the explanation of the 
mystery. 

“ I am sorry, Alice, to destroy your faith in the legends of 
which you are so fond,” remarked he, “ but my antiquarian 
researches have long since made me acquainted with the sub- 
ject of this picture — if picture it can be called — which is 
no more visible, nor ever will be, than the face of the long- 
buried man whom it once represented. It was the portrait of 
Edward Randolph, the founder of this house, a person 
famous in the history of New England.” 

“ Of that Edward Randolph,” exclaimed Captain Lincoln, 
u who obtained the repeal of the first provincial charter, under 
which our forefathers had enjoyed almost democratic privi- 
leges — he that was styled the arch enemy of New England, 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 


301 


and whose memory is still held in detestation as the de- 
stroyer of our liberties?” 

“ It was the same Randolph,” answered Hutchinson, mov- 
ing uneasily in his chair. “ It was his lot to taste the bitter- 
ness of popular odium.” 

“Our annals tell us,” continued the captain of Castle Will- 
iam, “ that the curse of the people followed this Randolph 
where he went and wrought evil in all the subsequent events 
of his life, and that its effect was seen, likewise, in the man- 
ner of his death. They say, too, that the inward misery of 
that curse worked itself outward and was visible on the 
wretched man’s countenance, making it too horrible to be 
looked upon. If so and if this picture truly represented his 
aspect, it was in mercy that the cloud of blackness has gath- 
ered over it.” 

“ These traditions are folly to one who has proved, as I 
have, how little of historic truth lies at the bottom,” said 
the lieutenant-governor. “As .regards the life and character of 
Edward Randolph, too implicit credence has been given to 
Dr. Cotton Mather, who — I must say it, though some ot 
his blood runs in my veins — has filled our early history with 
old women’s tales as fanciful and extravagant as those of 
Greece or Rome.” 

“And yet,” whispered Alice Vane, “ may not such fables 
have a moral? And methinks, if the visage of this portrait 
be so dreadful, it is not without a cause that it has hung 
so long in a chamber of the Province House. When the 
rulers feel themselves irresponsible, it were well that they 
should be reminded of the awful weight of a people’s curse.” 

The lieutenant-governor started and gazed for a moment at 
his niece, as if her girlish phantasies had struck upon some 
feeling in his own breast which all his policy or principles 


302 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


could not entirely subdue. He knew, indeed, that Alice, in 
spite of her foreign education, retained the native sympathies 
of a New England girl. 

“ Peace, silly child !” cried he at last, more harshly than he 
had ever before addressed the gentle Alice. “ The rebuke 
of a king is more to be dreaded than the clamor of a wild, 
misguided multitude. Captain Lincoln, it is decided . the 
fortress of Castle William must be occupied by the royal 
troops. The two remaining regiments shall be billeted in 
the town or encamped upon the Common. It is time, after 
years of tumult, and almost rebellion, that His Majesty’s 
government should have a wall of strength about it.” 

“Trust, sir — trust yet a while to the loyalty of the peo- 
ple,” said Captain Lincoln, “ nor teach them that they can 
ever be on other terms with British soldiers than those of 
brotherhood, as when they fought side by side through the 
French war. Do not convert the streets of your native town 
into a camp. Think twice before you give up old Castle Will- 
iam, the key of the province, into other keeping than that of 
true born New Englanders.” 

“ Young man, it is decided,” repeated Hutchinson, rising 
from his chair. “ A British officer will be in attendance this 
•evening to receive the necessary instructions for the disposal 
of the troops. Your presence also will be required. Till 
then, farewell.” 

With these words the lieutenant-governor hastily left the 
room, while Alice and her cousin more slowly followed, 
whispering together, and once pausing to glance back at the 
mysterious picture. The captain of Castle William fancied 
that the girl’s air and mien were such as might have belonged 
to one of those spirits of fable — fairies or creatures of a 
more antique mythology — who sometimes mingled their 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 


303 


agency with mortal affairs, half in caprice, yet with a sensi- 
bility to human weal or woe. As he held the door for her 
to pass Alice beckoned to the picture and smiled. 

“ Come forth, dark, and evil shape !” cried she, “ it is thine 
hour.” 

In the evening lieutenant-governor Hutchinson sat in the 
same chamber where the foregoing scene had occurred, sur- 
rounded by several persons whose various interests had sum- 
moned them together. There were the selectmen of Boston 
— plain patriarchal fathers of the people, excellent repre- 
sentatives of the old puritanical founders whose sombre- 
strength had stamped so deep an impress upon the New 
England character. Contrasting with these were one or two 
members of council, richly dressed in the white wigs, the 
embroidered waistcoats and other magnificence of the time, 
and making a somewhat ostentatious display of courtier-like 
ceremonial. In attendance, likewise, was a major of the Brit- 
ish army, awaiting the lieutenant-governor’s orders for the 
landing of the troops, which still remained on board the 
transports. The captain of Castle William stood beside 
Hutchinson’s chair, with folded arms, glancing rather haught- 
ily at the British officer by whom he was soon to be super- 
seded in his command. On a table in the centre of the cham 
ber stood a branched silver candlestick, throwing down the 
glow of half a dozen waxlights upon a paper apparently 
ready for the lieutenant-governor’s signature. 

Partly shrouded in the voluminous folds of one of the 
window curtains, which fell from the ceiling to the floor, 
was seen the white drapery of a lady’s robe. It may appear 
strange that Alice Vane should have been there at such a 
time, but there was something so childlike, so wayward, in 
her singular character, so apart from ordinary rules, that 


304 


•TWICE-TOLD TALES 


her presence did not surprise the few who noticed it. Mean- 
time, the chairman of the selectmen was addressing to the 
lieutenant-governor a long and solemn protest against the 
reception of the British troops into the town. 

“And if, Your Honor,” concluded this excellent but some- 
what prosy old gentleman, “ shall see fit to persist in bringing 
these mercenary sworders and musketeers into our quiet 
streets, not on our heads be the responsibility. Think, sir, 
while there is yet time, that if one drop of blood be shed, that 
blood shall be an eternal stain upon Your Honor’s memory. 
You, sir, have written with an able pen the deeds of our fore- 
fathers ; the more to be desired is it, therefore, that yourself 
should deserve honorable mention as a true patriot and up- 
right ruler when your own doings shall be written down 
in history.” < 

“ I am not insensible, my good sir, to the natural desire to 
stand well in the annals of my country,” replied Hutchinson, 
controlling his impatience into courtesy, “ nor know I any 
better method of attaining that end than by withstanding the 
merely temporary spirit of mischief which, with your pardon, 
seems to have infected older men than myself. Would you 
have me wait till the mob shall sack the Province House as 
they did my private mansion? Trust me, sir, the time may 
come when you will be glad to flee for protection to the 
king’s banner, the raising of which is now so distasteful to 
you.” 

“Yes,” said the British major, who was impatiently ex- 
pecting the lieutenant-governor’s orders, “ The demagogues 
of this province have raised the devil, and cannot lay him 
again. We will exorcise him in God’s name and the king’s.” 

“ If you meddle with the devil, take care of his claws. 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 


305 


answered the captain of Castle William, stirred by the taunt 
against his countrymen. 

“ Craving your pardon, young sir,” said the venerable select- 
man, “ let not an evil spirit enter into your words. We will 
strive against the oppressor with prayer and fasting, as our 
forefathers would have done. Like them, moreover, we will 
submit to whatever lot a wise Providence may send us — 
always after our own best exertions to amend it.” 

“ And there peep forth the devil’s claws !” muttered Hutch- 
inson, who well understood the nature of Puritan submission. 
“ This matter shall be expedited forthwith. When there shall 
be a sentinel at ever^ corner and a court of guard before the 
town-house, a loyal gentleman may venture to walk abroad. 
What to me is the outcry of a mob^in this remote province of 
the realm? The king is my master, and England is my 
country ; upheld by their armed strength, I set my foot upon 
the rabble and defy them.” 

He snatched a pen and was about to affix his signature to 
the paper that lay on the table, when the captain of Castle 
William placed his hand upon his shoulder. The freedom 
of the action, so contrary to the ceremonious respect which 
was then considered due to rank and dignity, awakened gen- 
eral surprise, and in none more than in the lieutenant-gov- 
ernor himself. Looking angrily up, he perceived that his 
young relative was pointing his finger to the opposite wall. 
Hutchinson’s eye followed the signal, and he saw what had 
hitherto been unobserved — that a black silk curtain was 
suspended before the mysterious picture, so as completely to 
conceal it. His thoughts immediately recurred to the scene 
of the preceding afte'rtroon, and in his surprise, confused by 
indistinct emotions, yet sensible that his niece must have had 


306 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


an agency in this phenomenon, he called loudly upon her: 

“Alice! Come hither, Alice!” 

No sooner had he spoken than Alice Vane glided from 
her station, pressing one hand across her eyes, and with the 
other snatched away the sable curtain that concealed the 
portrait. An exclamation of surprise burst from every be- 
holder, but the lieutenant-governor’s voice had a tone oi 
horror. 

“ By Heaven ! ” said he, in a low, inward murmur, speaking 
rather to himself than to those around him; “if the spirit ct 
Edward Randolph were to appear among > us from the place 
of torment, he could not wear more of the terrors of hell 
upon his face.” 

“ For some wise end,” said the aged selectman solemnly, 
“ hath Providence scattered away the mist cf years that had 
so long hid this dreadful effigy. Until this hour no living 
man hath seen what we behold.” 

Within the antique frame which so recently had enclosed a 
sable waste of canvas now appeared a visible picture — still 
dark, indeed in its hues and shadings, but thrown forward 
in strong relief. It was a half length figure of a gentleman 
in a rich but very old-fashioned dress of embroidered velvet, 
with a broad ruff and a beard, and wearing a hat the brim 
of which overshadowed his forehead. Beneath this cloud 
the eyes had a peculiar glare which was almost lifelike. The 
whole portrait started so distinctly out of the background that 
it had the effect of a person looking down from the wall at 
the astonished and awe-stricken spectators. The expression 
of the face, if any words can convey an idea of it, was that 
of a wretch detected in some hideous guilt and exposed to 
the bitter hatred and laughter, and withering scorn of a vast 
surrounding multitude. There was the struggle of defiance, 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 307 

beaten down and overwhelmed by the crushing weight of ig- 
nominy. The torture of the soul had come forth upon the 
countenance. It seemed as if the picture, while hidden be- 
hind the cloud of immemorial years, had been all the time 
acquiring an intenser depth and darkness of expression, till 
now it gloomed forth again and threw its evil omen over the 
present hour. Such, if the wild legend may be credited, was 
the portrait of Edward Randolph as he appeared when a peo- 
ple’s curse had wrought its influence upon his nature. 

“ Twouid drive me mad, that awful face,” said Hutch- 
inson, who seemed fascinated by the contemplation of it. 

“ Be warned, then,” whispered Alice. “ He trampled on 
a people’s rights. Behold his punishment and avoid a crime 
like his.” 

The lieutenant-governor actually trembled for an instant, 
but. exerting his energy — which was not, however, his most 
characteristic feature — he strove to shake off the spell of 
Randolph’s countenance. 

“ Girl,” cried he, laughing bitterly, as he turned to Alice, 
“ have you brought hither your painter’s art, your Italian 
spirit of intrigue, your tricks of stage effect, and think to 
influence the councils of rulers and the affairs of nations by 
such shallow contrivances ? See here !” 

“ Stay yet a while,” said the selectman as Hutchinson 
again snatched the pen ; “ for if ever mortal man received 
a warning from a tormented soul, Your Honor is that man.” 

“ Away,” answered Hutchinson, fiercely. “ Though yon- 
der senseless picture cried ‘ Forbear ! ’ it should not move me !” 

Casting a scowl of defiance at the pictured face — which 
seemed at that moment to intensify the horror of its miserable 
and wicked look — he scrawled on the paper in characters 
that betokened it a deed of desperation, the name of Thomas 


308 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Hutchinson. Then, it is said, he shuddered, as if that sig- 
nature had granted away his salvation. 

“ It is done,’’ said he, and placed his hand upon his brow. 

“May Heaven forgive the deed !” said the soft, sad ac- 
cents of Alice Vane, like the voice of a good spirit flitting 
away. 

When morning came, there was a stifled whisper through 
the household, and spreading thence about the town, that 
the dark mysterious picture had started from the wall and 
spoken face to face with Lieutenant-governor Hutchinson. 
If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of 
it remained behind ; for within the antique frame nothing 
could be discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had 
covered the canvas since the memory of man. If the figure 
had, indeed, stepped forth, it had fled back, spirit-like, at 
the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind a century’s obscurity. 
The truth probably was th^t Alice Vane’s secret for restoring 
the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary reno- 
vation. But those who in that brief interval had beheld the 
awful visage of Edward Randolph desired no second glance, 
and ever afterward trembled at the recollection of the scene 
as if an evil spirit had appeared visibly among them. And, 
as for Hutchinson, when, far over the ocean, his dying-hour 
drew on, he gasped for breath and complained that he was 
choking with the blood of the Boston Massacre, and Francis 
Lincoln, the former captain of Castle William, who was 
standing at his bedside, perceiyed a likeness in his frenzied 
look to that of Edward Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel 
at that dread hour the tremendous burden of a people’s 
curse ? 

At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of 
mine host whether the picture still remained in the cham- 


EDWARD RANDOLPH’S PORTRAIT 


309 


ber over our heads, but Mr. Tiffany informed me that it 
had long since been removed, and was supposed to be hidden 
in some out-of-the way corner of the New England Museum. 
Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, 
and with the assistance of Mr. Howarth, the picture-cleaner, 
may supply a not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of 
the facts here set down. 

During the progress of the story a storm had been gath- 
ering abroad and raging and rattling so loudly in the upper 
regions of the Province House that it seemed as if all the 
old governors and great men were running riot above stairs 
while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them below. In the 
course of generations, when many people have lived and 
died in an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through 
its crannies and the creaking of its beams and rafters be- 
come strangely like the tones of the human voice, or thun- 
dering laughter, or heavy footsteps treading the deserted 
chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a century were re- 
vived. Such -were the ghostly sounds that roared and mur- 
mured in our ears when I took leave of the circle round the 
fireside of the Province House, and, plunging down the 
doorsteps, fought my way homeward against a drifting snow- 


storm. 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


Mine excellent friend the landlord of the Province House 

was pleased the other evening to invite Mr. Tiffany and 

myself to an oyster-supper. This slight mark of respect and 

gratitude, as he handsomely observed, was far less than 

the ingenious tale-teller, and I, the humble note-taker of his 

narratives, had fairly earned by the public notice which our 

joint lucubrations had attracted to his establishment. Many 

a cigar had been smoked within his premises, many a glass 

of wine or more potent aqua vita had been quaffed, many a 

dinner had been eaten, by curious strangers who, save for 

the fortunate conjunction of Mr. Tiffany and me, would 

never have ventured through that darksome avenue which 

gives access to the historic precincts of the Province House. 

In short, if any credit be due to the courteous assurance of 

Mr. Thomas Waite, we had brought his forgotten mansion 

almost as effectually into public view as if we had thrown 

down the vulgar range of shoe-shops and dry-good stores 

which hides its aristocratic front from Washington Street. 

It may be unadvisable, however, to speak too loudly of the 

increased custom of the house, lest Mr. Waite should find 

it difficult to renew the lease on so favorable terms as 
% 

heretofore. 

_ Being thus welcomed as benefactors, neither Mr. Tiffany 
nor myself felt any scruple in doing full justice to the good 
things that were set before us. If the feast were less mag- 
nificent than those same panelled walls had witnessed in a 

RIO 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


311 


bygone century; if mine host presided with somewhat less 
of state than might have befitted a successor of the royal 
governors; if the guests made a less imposing show than the 
bewigged and powdered and embroidered dignitaries who 
erst banqueted at the gubernatorial table and now sleep 
within their armorial tombs on Copp’s Hill or round King’s 
Chapel,— yet never, I may boldly say, did a more comfortable 
little party assemble in the Province House from Queen 
Anne’s days to the Revolution. The occasion was rendered 
more interesting by the presence of a venerable personage 
whose own actual reminiscences went back to the epoch of 
Gage and Howe, and even supplied him with a doubtful 
anecdote or two of Hutchinson. He was one of that small, 
and now all but extinguished, class whose attachment to 
royalty, and to the colonial institutions and customs that 
were connected with it, had never yielded to the demo- 
cratic heresies of after-times. The young Queen of Britain 
has not a more loyal subject in her realm — perhaps not 
one who would kneel before her throne with such reveren- 
tial love — as this old grandsire whose head has whitened 

beneath the mild sway of the republic which still in his 
mellower moments he terms a usurpation. Yet prejudices so 
obstinate had not made him an ungentle or impracticable 
companion. If the truth must be told, the life of the aged loy- 
alist has been of such a scrambling and unsettled character 

— he has had so little choice of friends and been so often 

destitute of any — that I doubt whether he would refuse a 
cup of kindness with either Oliver Cromwell or John Han- 
cock, to say nothing of any democrat now upon the stage. 
In another paper of this series I may perhaps give the reader 
a closer glimpse of his portrait. 

Our host in due season uncorked a bottle of Madeira of 


312 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


such exquisite perfume and admirable flavor that he surelj 
must have discpvered it in an ancient bin down deep be- 
neath the deepest cellar where some jolly old butler stored 
away the governor's choicest wine and forgot to reveal 
the secret on his death-bed. Peace to his red-nosed ghost 
and a libation to his memory! This precious liquor was 
imbibed by Mr. Tiffany with peculiar zest, and after sipping 
the third glass it was his pleasure to give us one of the 
oddest legends which he had yet raked from the store- 
house where he keeps such matters. With some suitable 
adornments from my own fancy, it ran pretty much as fol- 
lows : 

Not long after Colonel Shute had assmed the government 
of Massachusetts Bay — now nearly a hundred and twenty 
years ago — a young lady of rank and fortune arrived from 
England to claim his protection as her guardian. He was 
her distant relative, but the nearest who had survived the 
gradual extinction of her family; so that no more eligible 
shelter could be found for the rich and high-born Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe than within the Province House of a 
Transatlantic colony. The consort of Governor Shute, more- 
over, had been as a mother to her childhood, and was now 
anxious to receive her in the hope that a beautiful young 
woman would be exposed to infinitely less peril from the 
primitive society of New England than amid the artifices and 
corruptions of a court. If either the governor or his lady 
had especially consulted their own comfort, they would 
probably have sought to devolve the responsibility on other 
hands, since with some noble and splendid traits of char- 
acter Lady Eleanore was remarkable for a harsh, unyielding 
pride, a haughty consciousness of her hereditary and per- 
sonal advantages, which made her almost incapable of con- 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


313 


trol. Judging from many traditionary anecdotes, this pecu- 
liar temper was hardly less than a monomania; or if the 
acts which it inspired were those of a sane person, it seemed 
due from Providence that pride so sinful should be fol- 
lowed by as severe a retribution. -That tinge of the mar- 
vellous which is thrown over so many of these half-forgotten 
legend's has probably imparted .an additional wildness to the 
strange story of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. 

The ship in which she came passenger had arrived at New- 
port, whence Lady Eleanore was conveyed to Boston in the 
governor’s coach, attended by a small escort of gentlemen 
on horseback. The ponderous equipage, with its four black 
horses, attracted much notice as it rumbled through Corn- 
hill surrounded by the prancing steeds of half a dozen cava- 
liers with swords dangling at their stirrups and pistols 
at their holsters. Through the large glass windows of 
the coach, as it rolled along, the people could discern the 
figure of Lady Eleanore, strangely combining an almost 
queenly stateliness with the grace and beauty of a maiden in 
her teens. A singular tale had gone abroad among the ladies 
of the province that their fair rival was indebted for much 
of the irresistible charm of her appearance to a certain arti- 
cle of dress — an embroidered mantle — which had been 
wrought by the most .skilful artist in London, and possessed 
even magical properties of adornment. On the present oc- 
casion, however, she owed nothing to the witchery of dress, 
being clad in a riding-habit of velvet which would have ap- 
peared stiff and ungraceful on any other form. 

The coachman reined in his four black steeds, and the 
whole cavalcade came to a pause in front of the contorted 
iron balustrade that fenced the Province House from the 
public street. It was an awkward coincidence that the be"' 


314 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


of the Old South was just then tolling for a funeral; so that, 
instead of a gladsome peal with which it was customary to 
announce the arrival of distinguished strangers, Lady Elea- 
nore Rochcliffe was ushered by a doleful clang, as if calam- 
ity had come embodied in her beautiful person. 

“ A very great disrespect ! ” exclaimed Captain Langford, 
an English officer who had recently brought despatches to 
Governor Shute. “ The funeral should have been deferred 
lest Lady Eleanore’s spirits be affected by such a dismal 
welcome.” 

“ With your pardon, sir,” replied Dr. Clarke, a physician 
and a famous champion of the popular party, “ whatever the 
heralds may pretend, a dead beggar must have precedence 
of a living queen. King Death confers high privileges.” 

These remarks were interchanged while the speakers waited 
a passage through the crowd which had gathered on each 
side of the gateway, leaving an open avenue to the portal 
of the Province House. A black slave in livery now leaped 
from behind the coach and threw open the door, while at 
the same moment Governor Shute descended the flight of 
steps from his mansion to assist Lady Eleanore in alighting. 
But the governor’s stately approach was anticipated in a 
manner that excited general astonishment. A pale young 
man with his black hair all in disorder rushed from the 
throng and prostrated himself beside the coach, thus offer- 
ing his person as a footstool for Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe 
to tread upon. She held back an instant, yet with an ex- 
pression as if doubting whether the young man were worthy 
to bear the weight of her footstep rather than dissatisfied to 
receive such awful reverence from a fellow-mortal. 

“Up, sir!” said the governor, sternly, at the same time 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


315 


lifting his cane over the intruder. “ What means the Bed- 
lamite by this freak?” 

“ Nay,” answered Lady Eleanore, playfully, but with more 
scorn than pity in her tone ; “ Your Excellency shall not 
strike him. When men seek only to be trampled upon, it 
were a pity to deny them a favor so easily granted — and 
so well deserved ! ” Then, though as lightly as a sunbeam 
on a cloud, she placed her foot upon the cowering form and 
extended her hand to meet that of the governor. 

There was a brief interval during which Lady Eleanor re- 
tained this attitude, and never, surely, was there an apter em- 
blem of aristocracy and hereditary pride trampling on human 
sympathies and the kindred of nature than these two figures 
presented at that moment. Yet the spectators were so smit- 
ten with her beauty, and so essential did pride seem to the 
existence of such a creature, that they gave a simultaneous 
acclamation of applause. 

“Who is this insolent young fellow?” inquired Captain 
Langford, who still remained beside Dr. Clarke. “ If he be 
in his senses, his impertinence demands the bastinado; if 
mad, Lady Eleanore should be secured from further incon- 
venience by his confinement.” 

“His name is Jervase Helwyse,” answered the doctor—, 
“a youth of no birth or fortune, or other advantages save 
the mind and soul that nature gave him, and being secre- 
tary to our colonial agent in London, it was his misfortune 
to meet this Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. He loved her, and 
her scorn has driven him mad.” 

“ He was mad so to aspire,” observed the English officer. 

“ It may be so,” said Dr. Clarke, frowning as he spoke ; 
“but I tell you, sir, I could wellnigh doubt the justice of 
the Heaven above us if no signal humiliation overtake this 


316 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


lady who now treads so haughtily into yonder mansion. She 
seeks to place herself above the sympathies of our common 
nature, which envelops all human souls ; see if that nature do 
not assert its claim over her in some mode that shall bring 
her level with the lowest.” 

‘ Never ! ” cried Captain Langford, indignantly — “ neither 
in life nor when they lay her with her ancestors.” 

Not many days afterward the governor gave a ball in honor 
of Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe. The principal gentry of the 
colony received invitations, which were distributed to their 
residences far and near by messengers on horseback bearing 
missives sealed with all the formality of official despatches. 
In obedience to the summons, there was a general gathering 
of rank, wealth and beauty, and the wide door of the Prov- 
ince House had seldom given admittance to more numerous 
and honorable guests than on the evening of Lady Eleanore’s 
ball. Without much extravagance of eulogy, the spectacle 
might even be termed splendid for, according to the fashion 
of the times, the ladies shone in rich silks and satins outspread 
over wide-projecting hoops, and the gentlemen glittered in 
gold embroidery laid unsparingly upon the purple or scarlet 
or sky-blue velvet which was the material of their coats arid 
waistcoats. The latter article of dress was of great impor- 
tance, since it enveloped the wearer’s body nearly to the 
knees and was perhaps bedizened with the amount of his whole 
year’s income in golden flowers and foliage. The altered taste 
of the present day — a taste symbolic of a deep change in 
the whole system of society — would look upon almost any 
cf those gorgeous figures as ridiculous, although that even- 
ing the guests sought their reflections in the pier-glasses and 
rejoiced to catch their own glitter amid the glittering crowd. 
What a pity that one of the stately mirrors has not preserved 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


317 


a picture of the scene which by the very traits that were 
so transitory might have taught us much that would be 
worth knowing and remembering ! 

Would, at least, that either painter or mirror could corn 
vey to us some faint idea of a garment already noticed in 
this legend — the Lady Eleanore’s embroidered mantle, which 
the gossips whispered was invested with magic properties, 
so as to lend a new and untried grace to her figure each 
time that she put it on ! Idle fancy as it is, this mysterious 
mantle has thrown an awe around my image of her, partly 
from its fabled virtues and partly because it was the handi- 
work of a dying woman, and perchance owed the fantastic 
grace of its conception to the delirium of approaching death. 

After the ceremonial greetings had been paid, Lady Eleanore 
Rochcliffe stood apart from the mob of guests, insulating her- 
self within a small and distinguished circle to whom she ac- 
corded a more cordial favor than to the general throng. The 
waxen torches threw their radiance vividly over the scene, 
bringing out its brilliant points in strong relief, but she 
gazed carelessly, and with now and then an expression of 
weariness or scorn tempered with such feminine grace that 
her auditors scarcely perceived the moral deformity of which 
it was the utterance. She beheld the spectacle not with 
vulgar ridicule, as disdaining to be pleased with the pro- 
vincial mockery of a court-festival, but with the deeper scorn 
of one whose spirit held itself too high to participate in the 
enjoyment of other human souls. Whether or no the recol- 
lections of those who saw her that evening were influenced by 
the strange events with which she was subsequently connected, 
so it was that her figure ever after recurred to them as marked 
by something wild and unnatural, although at the time the 
general whisper was of her exceeding beauty and of the in- 


318 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


describable charm which her mantle threw around her. Some 
close observers, indeed, detected a feverish flush and alter 
nate paleness of countenance, with a corresponding flow and 
revulsion of spirits, and once or twice a painful and help- 
less betrayal of lassitude, as if she were on the point of sink- 
ing to the ground. Then, with a nervous shudder, she seemed 
to arouse her energies, and threw some bright and playful 
yet half-wicked sarcasm into the conversation. There was 
so strange a characteristic in her manners and sentiments 
that it astonished every right-minded listener, till, look- 
ing into her face, a lurking and incomprehensible glance and 
smile perplexed them with doubts both as to her seriousness 
and sanity. Gradually, Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe’s circle grew 
smaller, till only four gentlemen remained in it. These were 
Captain Langford, the English officer before mentioned; a 
Virginian planter who had come to Massachusetts on some 
political errand ; a young Episcopal clergyman, the grandson 
of a British earl ; and, lastly, the private secretary of Gov- 
ernor Shute, whose obsequiousness had won a sort of toler- 
ance from Lady Eleanore. 

At different periods of the evening the liveried servants 
of the Province House passed among the guests bearing huge 
trays of refreshments and French and Spanish wines. Lady 
Eleanore Rochcliffe, who refused to wet her beautiful lips 
even with a bubble of champagne, had sunk back into a large 
damask chair, apparently overwearied either with the ex- 
citement of the scene or its tedium ; and while, for an instant, 
she was unconcious of voices, laughter and music, a young 
man stole forward and knelt down at her feet. He bore a 
salver in his hand on which was a chased silver goblet filled 
to the brim with wine, which he offered as reverentially as to 
a. crowned queen — or, rather, with the awful devotion of a 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


319 


priest doing sacrifice to his idol. Conscious that some one 
touched her robe, Lady Eleanore started, and unclosed her 
eyes upon the pale, wild features and dishevelled hair of 
Jervase Helwyse. 

“Why do you haunt me thus?” said she, in a languid tone, 
but with a kindlier feeling than she ordinarily permitted her- 
self to express. “ They tell me that I have done you harm.” 

“ Heaven knows if that be so,” replied the young man, 
solemnly. “ But, Lady Eleanore, in requital of that harm, 
if such there be, and for your own earthly and heavenly wel- 
fare, I pray you to take one sip of this holy wine and then 
to pass the goblet round among the guests. And this shall 
be a symbol that you have not sought to withdraw yourself 
from the chain of human sympathies, which whoso would 
shake off must keep company with fallen angels.” 

“ Where has this mad fellow stolen that sacramental ves- 
sel ? ” exclaimed the Episcopal clergyman. 

This question drew the notice of the guests to the silver 
cup, which was recognized as appertaining to the communion- 
plate of the Old South Church, and, for aught that could 
be known, it was brimming over with the consecrated wine. 

“ Perhaps it is poisoned,” half whispered the governor’^ 
secretary. 

“ Pour it down the villain’s throat ! ” cried the Virginian, 
fiercely. 

‘ Turn him out of the house ! ” cried Captain Langford, 
seizing Jervase Helwyse so roughly by the shoulder that the 
sacramental cup was overturned and its contents sprinkled 
upon Lady Eleanore’s mantle. “ Whether knave, fool or Bed- 
lamite, it is intolerable that the fellow should go at large.” 

“ Pray, gentlemen, do my poor admirer no harm," said 
Lady Eleanore, with a faint and weary smile. “Take him 


( 


320 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


out of my sight, if such be your pleasure, for I can find in 
my heart to do nothing but laugh at him, whereas, in all 
decency and conscience, it would become me to weep for the 
mischief I have wrought.” 

But while the bystanders were attempting to lead away the 
unfortunate young man he broke from them and with a wild 
impassioned earnestness offered a new and equally strange 
petition to Lady Eleanore. It was no other than that she 
should throw off the mantle, which while he pressed the sil- 
ver cup of wine upon her she had drawn more closely around 
her form, so as almost to shroud herself within it. 

“ Cast it from you,” exclaimed Jervase Helwyse, clasping 
his hands in an agony of entreaty. “ It may not yet be too 
late. Give the accursed garment to the flames.” 

But Lady Eleanore, with a laugh of scorn, drew the rich 
folds of the embroidered mantle over her head in such a 
fashion as to give a completely new aspect to her beautiful 
face, which, half hidden, half revealed, seemed to belong to 
some being of mysterious character and purposes. 

“Farewell, Jervase Helwyse!” said she. “Keep my im- 
age in your remembrance as you behold it now.” 

“Alas, lady!” he replied, in a tone no longer wild, but 
sad as a funeral-bell; “we must meet shortly when your 
face may wear another aspect, and that shall be the image 
that must abide within me.” He made no more resistance to 
the violent efforts of the gentlemen and servants who almost 
dragged him out of the apartment and- dismissed him roughly 
from the iron gate of the Province House. 

Captain Langford, who had been very active in this affair, 
was returning to the presence ot Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, 
when he encountered the physician, Dr. Clarke, with whom 
he had held some casual talk on the day of her arrival. The 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


321 


doctor stood apart, separated from Lady Eleanore by the 
width of the room, but eying her with such keen sagacity 
that Captain Langford involuntarily gave him credit for the 
discovery of some deep secret. 

“ You appear to be smitten, after all, with the charms of 
this queenly maiden,” said he, hoping thus to draw forth the 
physician’s hidden knowledge. 

“ God forbid ! ” answered Dr. Clarke, with a grave smile ; 
“ and if you be wise, you will put up the same prayer for 
yourself. Woe to those who shall be smitten by this beautiful 
Lady Eleanore ! But yonder stands the governor, and I have 
a word or two for his private ear. Good-night ! ” He ac- 
cordingly advanced to Governor Shute and addressed him in 
so low a tone that none of the bystanders could catch a 
word of what he said, although the sudden change of His 
Excellency’s hitherto cheerful visage betokened that the com- 
munication could be of no agreeable import. A very few 
moments afterward it was announced to the guests that an 
unforeseen circumstance rendered it necessary to put a pre- 
mature close to the festival. 

The ball at the Province House supplied a topic of convert 
sation for the colonial metropolis for some days after its 
occurrence, and might still longer have been the general 
theme, only that a subject of all engrossing interest thrust 
it for a time from the public recollection. This was the 
appearance of a dreadful epidemic which in that age, and long 
before and afterward, was wont to slay its hundreds and 
thousands on both sides of the Atlantic. On the occasion 
of which we speak it was distinguished by peculiar viru- 
lence, insomuch that it has left its traces — its pit marks, to 
use an appropriate figure — on the history of the country, tlv 
aflfairs of which were thrown into confusion by its ravages 


322 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


At first, unlike its ordinary course, the disease seemed to 
confine itself to the higher circles of society, selecting its 
victims from among the proud, the well-born and trie wealthy, 
entering unabashed into stately chambers and lying down 
with the slumberers in silken beds. Some of the most dis- 
tinguished guests of the Province House — even those whom 
the haughty Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe had deemed not un- 
worthy of her favor — were stricken by this fatal scourge. 
It was noticed with an ungenerous bitterness of feeling that 
the four gentlemen — the Virginian, the British officer, the 
young clergyman and the governor’s secretary — who had 
been her most devoted attendants on the evening of the ball 
were the foremost on whom the plague-stroke fell. But 
the disease, pursuing its onward progress, soon ceased to 
be exclusively a prerogative of aristocracy. Its red brand 
was no longer conferred like a noble’s star or an order of 
knighthood. It threaded its way through the narrow and 
crooked streets, and entered the low, mean, darksome dwell- 
ings and laid its hand of death upon the artisans and laboring 
classes of the town. It compelled rich and poor to feel them- 
selves brethren then, and stalking to and fro across the Three 
Hills with a fierceness which made it almost a new pestilence, 
there was that mighty conqueror — that scourge and horror of 
our forefathers — the small-pox. 

We cannot estimate the affright which this plague inspired 
of yore by contemplating it as the fangless monster of the 
present day. We must remember rather, with what awe we 
watched the gigantic footsteps of the Asiatic cholera striding 
from shore to shore of the Atlantic and marching like Destiny 
upon cities far remote which flight had already half depopu- 
lated. There is no other fear so horrible and unhumanizing 
as that which makes man dread to breathe heaven's vital 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


323 - 


air lest it be poison, or to grasp the hand of a brother 
or friend lest the grip of the pestilence should clutch him. 
Such was the dismay that now followed in the track of the 
disease or ran before it throughout the town. Graves were 
hastily dug and the pestilential relics as hastily covered, be- 
cause the dead were enemies of the living and strove to draw 
them headlong, as it were, into their own dismal pit. The 
public councils were suspended, as if mortal wisdom might 
relinquish its devices now that an unearthly usurper had 
found his way into the ruler’s mansion. Had an enemy’s 
fleet been hovering on the coast or his armies trampling 
on our soil, the people would probably have committed their 
defence to that same direful conquerer who had wrought their 
own calamity, and would permit no interference with his 
sway. This conqueror had a symbol of his triumphs : it was a 
blood-red flag that fluttered in the tainted air over the door 
of every dwelling into which the small-pox had entered. 

Such a banner was long since waving over the portal of 
the Province House, for thence, as was proved by tracing its 
footsteps back, had all this dreadful mischief issued. It had 
been traced back to a lady’s luxurious chamber, to the proud- 
est of the proud, to her that was so delicate and hardly 
owned herself of earthly mould, to the haughty one who took 
her stand above human sympathies — to Lady Eleanore. 
There remained no room for doubt that the contagion had 
lurked in that gorgeous mantle which threw so strange a 
grace around her at the festival. Its fantastic splendor had 
been conceived in the delirious brain of a woman on her 
death-bed and was the last toil of her stiffening fingers, which 
had interwoven fate and misery with its golden threads. 
This dark tale, whispered at first, was now bruited far and 
wide. The people raved against the Lady Eleanore, and cried 


324 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


out that her pride and scorn had evoked a fiend, and that 
between them- both this monstrous evil had been born. At 
times their rage and despair took the semblance of grinning 
mirth ; and whenever the red flag of the pestilence was hoisted 
over another and yet another door, they clapped their hands 
and shouted through the streets in bitter mockery : “ Behold 

a new triumph for the Lady Eleanore ! ” 

One day in the midst of fliese dismal times a wild figure 
approached the portal of the Province House, and, folding 
his arms, stood contemplating the scarlet banner, which a 
passing breeze shook fitfully, as if to fling abroad the conta- 
gion that it typified. At length, climbing one of the pillars 
by means of the iron balustrade, he took down the flag and 
entered the mansion waving it above his head. At the foot 
of the staircase he met the governor, booted and spurred, 
with his cloak drawn around him, evidently on the point 
of setting forth upon a journey. 

“Wretched lunatic, what do you seek here?” exclaimed 
Shute, extending his cane to guard himself from contact. 
“ There is nothing here but Death ; back, or you will meet 
him.” 

“ Death will not touch me, the banner-bearer qf the pesti- 
lence,” cried Jervase Helwyse, shaking the red flag aloft. 
“ Death and the pestilence, who wears the aspect of the Lady 
Eleanore, will walk through the streets to-night, and I must 
march before them with this banner.” 

“Why do I waste words on the fellow?” muttered the gov- 
ernor, drawing his cloak across his mouth. “ What matters 
his miserable life, when none of us are sure of twelve hours’ 
breath ? — On, fool, to your own destruction ! ” 

He made way for Jervase Helwyse, who immediately 
ascended the staircase, but on the first landing-place was 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


325 


arrested by the firm grasp of a hand upon his shoulder. 
Looking fiercely up with a madman’s impulse to struggle with 
and rend asunder his opponent, he found himself powerless 
beneath a calm, stern eye which possessed the mysterious 
property of quelling frenzy at its height. The person whom 
he had now encountered was the physician, Dr. Clarke, the 
duties of whose sad profession had led him to the Province 
House, where he was an infrequent guest in more prosperous 
times. 

“Young man, what is your purpose?” demanded he. 

“ I seek the Lady Eleanore,” answered Jervase Helwyse, 

submissivelv. 

“All have fled from her,” said the physician. Why do you 
seek her now? I tell you, youth, her nurse fell death- 
stricken on the threshold of that fatal chamber. Know ye 
not that never came such a curse to our shores as this lovely 
Lady Eleanore, that her breath has filled the air with poison, 
that she has shaken pestilence and death upon the land from 
the folds of her accursed mantle?” 

“Let me look upon her,” rejoined the mad youth, mor* 
wildly. “ Let me behold her in her awful beauty, clad in the 
regal garments of the pestilence. She and Death sit on a 
throne together; let me kneel down before them.” 

“ Poor youth ! ” said Dr. Clarke, and, moved by a deep 
sense of human weakness, a smile of caustic humor curled 
his lip even then. “ Wilt thou still worship the destroyer and 
surround her image with fantasies the more magnificent the 
more evil she has wrought? Thus man doth ever to his 
tyrants. Approach, then. Madness, as I have noted, hac 
that good efficacy that it will guard you from contagion, and 
perhaps its own cure may be found in yonder chamber” 


326 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Ascending another flight of stairs, he threw open a door and 
signed to Jervase Helwyse that he should enter. 

The poor lunatic, it seems probable, had cherished a de- 
lusion that his haughty mistress sat in state, unharmed her- 
self by the pestilential influence which as by enchantment 
she scattered round about her. He dreamed, no doubt, that 
her beauty was not dimmed, but brightened into superhuman 
splendor. With such anticipations he stole reverentially to 
the door at which the physician stood, but paused upon the 
threshold, gazing fearfully into the gloom of the darkened 
chamber. 

“Where is the Lady Eleanore?” whispered he. 

“ Call her,” replied the physician. 

“ Lady Eleanore ! princess ! queen of Death ! ” cried Jervase 
Helwyse, advancing three steps into the chamber. “ She is 
not here. There, on yonder table, I behold the sparkle of 
a diamond which 4 once she wore upon her bosom. There” — 
and he shuddered — “ there hangs her mantle, on which a 
<lead woman embroidered a spell of dreadful potency. But 
where is the Lady Eleanore?” 

Something stirred within the silken curtains of a canopied 
bed and a low moan was uttered, which, listening intently, 
Jervase Helwyse began to distinguish as a woman’s voise 
complaining dolefully of thirst. He fancied, even, that he 
recognized its tones. 

“ My throat ! My throat is scorched,” murmured the 
■voice. “A drop of water ! ” 

“What thing art thou?” said the brain-stricken youth, 
•drawing near the bed and tearing asunder its curtains. 
“ Whose voice hast thou stolen for thy murmurs and miser- 
able petitions, as if Lady Eleanore could be conscious of 


LADY ELEANORE’S MANTLE 


327 


mortal infirmity? Fie! Heap of diseased mortality, why 
lurkest thou in my lady’s chamber ? ” 

“ Oh, Jervase Helwyse,” said the voice — and as it spok* 
the figure contorted itself, struggling to hide its blasted 
face — “ look not now on the woman you once loved. The 
curse of heaven hath stricken me because I would not caff 
man my brother nor woman, sister. I wrapped myself i: 
pride as in a mantle and scorned the sympathies of nature 
and therefore has Nature made this wretched body the medi- 
um of a dreadful sympathy. You are avenged, they are all 
avenged. Nature is avenged ; for I am Lady Eleanore Roch- 
cliffe.” 

The malice of his mental disease, the bitterness lurking at 
the bottom of his heart, mad as he was, for a blighted and 
ruined life and love that had been paid with cruel scorn, 
awoke within the breast of Jervase Helwyse. He shook his 
finger at the wretched girl, and the chamber echoed, the 
curtains of the bed were shaken, with his outburst of insane 
merriment. 

“Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!” he cried. “All 
have been her victims ; who so worthy to be the final victim 
as herself?” Impelled by some new fantasy of his crazed 
intellect, he snatched the fatal mantle and rushed from the 
chamber and the house. 

That night a procession passed by torchlight through the 
streets, bearing in the midst the figure of a woman enveloped 
with a richly-embroidered mantle, while in advance stalked 
Jervase Helwyse waving the red flag of the pestilence. 
Arriving opposite the Province House, the mob burned the 
effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. 
It was said that from that very hour the pestilence abated, as 
if its sway had some mysterious connection, from the first 


328 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


plague-stroke to the last, with Lady Eleanore’s mantle. A 
remarkable uncertainty broods over that unhappy lady’s fate. 
There is a belief, however, that in a certain chamber of this 
mansion a female form may sometimes be duskily discerned 
shrinking into the darkest corner and muffling her face within 
an embroidered mantle. Supposing the legend true, can this 
be other than the once proud Lady Eleanore? 

Mine host and the old loyalist and I bestowed no little 
warmth of applause upon this narrative, in which we had all 
been deeply interested ; for the reader can scarcely conceive 
how unspeakably the effect of such a tale is heightened when, 
as in the present case, we may repose perfect confidence in 
the veracity of him who tells it. For my own part, knowing 
how scrupulous is Mr. Tiffany to settle the foundation of his 
facts, I could not have believed him one whit the more 
faithfully had he professed himself an eye-witness of the 
doings and sufferings of poor Lady Eleanore. Some sceptics, 
it is true, might demand documentary evidence* or even re- 
quire him to produce the embroidered mantle, forgetting that 
■ — Heaven be praised! — it was consumed to ashes. 

But now the old loyalist, whose blood was warmed by the 
good cheer, began to talk, in his turn, about the traditions 
of the Province House, and hinted that he, if it were agree- 
able, might add a few reminiscences to our legendary stock. 
Mr. Tiffany, having no cause to dread a rival, immediately 
besought him to favor us with a specimen ; my own entreaties, 
of course, were urged to the same effect; and our venerable 
guest, well pleased to find willing auditors, awaited only the 
return of Mr. Thomas Waite, who had been summoned forth 
to provide accommodations for several new arrivals. Per- 
chance the public — but be this as its own caprice and ours 
shall settle the matter — may read the result in another tale 
of the Province House. 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 

Our host having resumed the chair, he as well as Mr. 
Tiffany and myself expressed much eagerness to be made 
acquainted with the story to which the loyalist had alluded. 
That venerable man first of all saw fit to moisten his throat 
with another glass of wine, and then turning his face toward 
our coal-fire, looked steadily for a few moments into the 
depths of its cheerful glow. Finally he poured forth a great 
fluency of speech. The generous liquid that he had imbibed, 
while it warmed his age-chilled blood, likewise took off the 
chill from his heart and mind, and gave him an energy to 
think and feel which we could hardly have expected to find 
beneath the snows of fourscore winters. His feelings, indeed, 
appeared to me more excitable than those ot a younger man 
— or, at least, the same degree of 'feeling manifested itself 
by more visible effects than if his judgment and will had 
possessed the potency of meridian life. At the pathetic 
passages of his narrative he readily melted into tears. When 
a breath of indignation swept across his spirit, the blood 
flushed his withered visage even to the roots of his white 
hair, and he shook his clinched fist at the trio of peaceful 
auditors, seeming to fancy enemies in those who felt very 
kindly toward the desolate old soul. But «.ver and anon, 
sometimes in the midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient 
person’s intellect would wander vaguely, losing its hold of 
the matter in hand and groping for it amid misty Shadows. 

329 


330 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Then would he cackle forth a feeble laugh and express a 
doubt whether his wits — for by that phrase it pleased our 
ancient friehd to signify his mental powers — were not getting 
a little the worse for wear. 

Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist’s story required 
more revision to render it fit for the public eye than those of 
the series which have preceded it; nor should it be concealed 
that the sentiment and tone of the affair may have undergone 
some slight — or perchance more than slight — metamor 
phosis in its transmission to the reader, through the medium 
of a thorough-going democrat. The tale itself is a mere 
sketch with no involution of plot nor any great interest of 
events, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed it aright, that 
pensive influence over the mind which the shadow of the old 
Province House flings upon the loiterer in its court-yard. 

The hour had come — the hour of defeat and humiliation 
— when Sir William Howe was to pass over the threshold 
of the Province House and embark, with no such triumphal 
ceremonies as he once prpmised himself, on board the British 
fleet. He bade his servants and military attendants go before 
him, and lingered a moment in the loneliness of the mansion 
to quell the fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as 
with a death-throb. Preferable then would he have deemed 
his fate had a warrior’s death left him a claim to the narrow 
territory of a grave within the soil which the king had given 
him to defend. With an ominous perception that as his 
departing footsteps echoed down the staircase the sway of 
Britain was passing forever from New England, he smote his 
clinched hand on his brow and cursed the destiny that had 
Slung the shame of a dismembered empire upon him. 

Would to God,” cried he, hardly repressing his tears of 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 


331 


rage, “ that the rebels were even now at the door-step ! A 
blood-stain upon the floor should then bear testimony that 
the last British ruler was faithful to his trust.” 

The tremulous voice of a woman replied to his exclamation. 

“ Heaven’s cause and the king’s are one,” it said. “ Go 
forth, Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven to bring back 
a royal governor in triumph. 

Subduing at once the passion to which he had yielded only 
in the faith that it was unwitnessed, Sir William Howe 
became conscious that an aged woman leaning on a gold- 
headed staff was standing betwixt him and the door. It was 
old Esther Dudley, who had dwelt almost immemorial years 
in this mansion, until her presence seemed as inseparable 
from it as the recollections of its history. She was the 
daughter of an ancient and once eminent family which had 
fallen into poverty and decay, and left its last descendant 
no resource save the bounty of the king, nor any shelter 
except within the walls of the Province House. An office in 
the household with merely nominal duties had been assigned 
to her as a pretext for the payment of a small pension, the 
greater part of which she expended in adorning herself with 
an antique magnificence of attire. The claims of Esther 
Dudley’s gentle blood were acknowledged by all the successive 
governors, and they treated her with the punctilious courtesy 
which it was her foible to demand, not always with success, 
from a neglectful world. The only actual share which she 
assumed in the business of the mansion was to glide through 
its passages and public chambers late at night to see that th<* 
servants had dropped no fire from their flaring torches not 
left embers crackling and blazing on the hearths. Perhaps 
it was this invariable custom of walking her rounds in the 
hush of midnight that caused -he superstition of the times to 


332 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


invest the old woman with attributes of awe and mystery, 
fabling that she had entered the portal of the Province House 
— none knew whence — in the train of the first royal gover- 
nor, and that it was her fate to dwell there till the last should 
have departed. 

But Sir William Howe, if he ever heard this legend, had 
forgotten it. 

“Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here?” asked he, 
with some severity of tone. “ It is my pleasure to be the 
last in this mansion of the king.” 

“ Not so, if it please Your Excellency,” answered the time- 
stricken woman. “ This roof has sheltered me long ; I will 
not pass from it until they bear me to the tomb of my fore- 
fathers. What other shelter is there for old Esther Dudley 
save the Province House or the grave?” 

“ Now, Heaven forgive me !” said Sir William Howe to 
himself. “ I was about to leave this wretched old creature 
to starve or beg. — Take this, good Mistress Dudley,” he added, 
putting a purse into her hands. “ King George’s head on 
these golden guineas is sterling yet, and will continue so, I 
warrant you, even should the rebels crown John Hancock 
their king. That purse will buy a better shelter than the 
Province House can now afford.” 

“ While the burden of life remains upon me I will have no 
other shelter than this roof,” persisted Esther Dudley, striking 
her staff upon the floor with a gesture that expressed im- 
movable resolve; “and when Your Excellency returns in 
triumph, I will totter into the porch to welcome you.” 

“ My poor old friend ! ” answered the British general, and 
all his manly and martial pride could no longer restrain a 
gush of bitter tears. “ This is an evil hour for you and 
me. The province which the king entrusted to my charge 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 


333 


is lost. I go hence in misfortune — perchance in disgrace — 
to return no more. And you, whose present being is incor- 
porated with the past, who have seen governor after gover- 
nor in stately pageantry ascend these steps, whose whole life 
has been an observance of majestic ceremonies and a worship 
of the king, — how will you endure the change? Come with 
us; bid farewell to a land that has shaken off its allegiance, 
and live still under a royal government at Halifax.” 

“ Never ! never ! ” said the pertinacious old dame. “ Here 
will I abide, and King George shall still have one true subject 
in his disloyal Province.” 

“ Beshrew the old fool ! ” muttered Sir William Howe, 
growing impatient of her obstinacy and ashamed of the emo- 
tion into which he had been betrayed. “ She is the very 
moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could exist nowhere 
but in this musty edifice. — Well, then, Mistress Dudley, since 
you will needs tarry, I give the Province House in charge 
to you. Take this key, and keep it safe until myself or 
some other royal governor shall demand it of you.” Smiling 
bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy key of the 
Province House, and, delivering i { into the old lady’s hands, 
drew his cloak around him for departure. 

As the general glanced back at Esther Dudley’s antique 
figure he deemed her well fitted for such a charge, as being 
so perfect a representative of the decayed past — of an age 
gone by, with its manners, opinions, faith and feelings all 
fallen into oblivion or scorn, of what had once been a reality, 
but was now merely a vision of faded magnificence. Then 
Sir William Howe strode forth, smiting his clinched hands 
together in the fierce anguish of his spirit, and old Esther Dud- 
ley was left to keep watch in the lonely Province House, dwell- 


334 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ing there with Memory : and if Hope ever seemed to flit around 
her, still it was Memory in disguise. 

The total change -of affairs that ensued on the departure of 
the British troops did not drive the venerable lady from her 
stronghold. There was not for many years afterward a gover- 
nor of Massachusetts, and the magistrates who had charge 
of such matters saw no objection to Esther Dudley’s resi- 
dence in the Province House, especially as they must other- 
wise have paid a hireling for taking care of the premises, 
which with her was a labor of love; and so they left her 
the undisturbed mistress of the old historic edifice. Many 
and strange were the fables which the gossips whispered 
about her in all the chimney-corners of the town. 

Among the time-worn articles of furniture that had been 
left in the mansion, there was a tall antique mirror which was 
well worthy of a tale by itself, and perhaps may hereafter 
be the theme of one. The gold of its heavily-wrought frame 
was tarnished, and its surface so blurred that the old woman’s 
figure, whenever she paused before it, looked indistinct and 
ghostlike. But it was the general belief that Esther could 
cause the governors of the overthrown dynasty, with the 
beautiful ladies who had once adorned their festivals, the 
Indian chiefs who had come up to the Province House to 
hold council or swear allegiance, the grim Provincial war- 
riors, the severe clergymen — in short, all the pageantry of 
gone days, all the figures that ever swept across the broad 
plate of glass in former times, — - she could cause the whole 
to reappear and people the inner world of the mirror with 
shadows of old life. Such legends as these, together with 
the singularity of her isolated existence, her age and the 
infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made Mis- 
tress Dudley the object both of fear and pity, and it was 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 


335 


partly the result of either sentiment that, amid all the angry 
license of the times, neither wrong nor insult ever fell upon 
her unprotected head. Indeed, there was so much haughtiness 
in her demeanor toward intruders — among whom she reck- 
oned all persons acting under the new authorities — that it 
was really an affair of no small nerve to look her in the face 
And, to do the people justice, stern republicans as they 
had now become, they were well content that the old gentle- 
woman, in her hoop-petticoat and faded embroidery, should 
still haunt the palace of ruined pride and overthrown power, 
the symbol of a departed system, embodying a history in her 
person. So Esther Dudley dwelt year after year in the Prov- 
ince House, still reverencing all that others had flung aside, 
still faithful to her king, who, so long as the venerable dame 
yet held her post, might be said to retain one true subject in 
New England and one spot of the empire that had been 
wrested from him. 

And did she dwell there in utter loneliness? Rumor said. 
“ Not so.” Whenever her chill and withered heart desired 
warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave of Governor 
Shirley’s from the blurred mirror and send him in search of 
guests who had long ago been familiar in those deserted 
chambers. Forth went the sablje messenger, with the star- 
light or the moonshine gleaming through him, and did his 
errand in the burial grounds, knocking at the iron doors ,of 
tombs, or upon the marble slabs that covered them, and 
whispering to those within, “ My mistress, old Esther Dudley, 
bids you to the Province House at midnight”; and punctu- 
ally as the clock of the Old South told twelve came the 
shadows of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the Dudleys — all 
the grandees of a bygone generation — gliding through the 
portal into the well-known mansion, where Esther mingled 


336 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


with them as if she likewise were a shade. Without vouch- 
ing for the truth of such traditions it is certain that Mistress 
Dudley sometimes assembled a few of the staunch though 
crestfallen old Tories who had lingered in the rebel town 
during those days of wrath and tribulation. Out of a cob- 
webbed bottle containing liquor that a royal governor might 
have smacked his lips over they quaffed healths to the king 
and babbled treason to the republic, feeling as if the 
protecting shadow of the throne were still flung around them. 
But, draining the last drops of their liquor, they stole timor- 
ously homeward, and answered not again if the rude mob 
reviled them in the street. 

Yet Esther Dudley’s most frequent and favored guests 
were the children of the town. Toward them she was never 
stern. A kindly and loving nature hindered elsewhere from 
its free course by a thousand rocky prejudices lavished itself 
upon these little ones. By bribes of gingerbread of her own 
making stamped with a royal crown, she tempted their 
sunnny sportiveness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province 
House, and would often beguile them to spend a whole play- 
day there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop- 
petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a dead world. 
And when these little boys and girls stole forth again from 
the dark mysterious mansion, they went bewildered, full of 
old feelings that graver people had long ago forgotten, rub- 
bing their eyes at the world around them as if they had gone 
astray into ancient times and become children of the past. 
At home when their parents asked where they had loitered 
such a weary while and with whom they had been at play, 
the children would talk of all the departed worthies of the 
province, as far back as Governor Belcher and the haughty 
dame of Sir William Phipps. It would seem as though they 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 


337 


had been sitting on the knees of these famous personages, 
whom the grave had hidden for half a century, and had 
toyed with the embroidery of their rich waistcoats or rougishly 
pulled the long curls of their flowing wigs. “ But Governor 
Belcher has been dead this many a year,” would the mother 
say to her little boy. “And did you really see him at the 
Province House ? ” — “ Oh yes, dear mother — yes ! ” the half- 
dreaming child would answer. “ But when old Esther had 
done speaking about him, he faded away out of his chair." 
Thus without affrighting her little guests, she led them by the 
hand into the chambers of her own desolate heart and made 
childhood’s fancy discern the ghosts that haunted there. 

Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and never 
regulating her mind by a proper reference to present things, 
Esther Dudley appears to have grown partially crazed. It 
was found that she had no right sense of the progress and 
true state of the Revolutionary war, but held a constant faith 
that the armies of Britain were victorious on every field and 
destined to be ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town 
rejoiced for a battle won by Washington or Gates or Morgan 
or Greene, the news, in passing through the door of the 
Province House, as through the ivory gate of dreams, became 
metamorphosed into a strange tale of the prowess of Howe, 
Clinton, or Cornwallis. Sooner or later, it was her invincible 
belief, the colonies would be prostrate at the footstool of 
the king. Sometimes she seemed to take for granted that 
such was already the case. On one occasion she startled the 
townspeople by a, brilliant illumination of the Province House 
with candles at every pane of glass, and a transparency of 
the king’s initials and a crown of light in the great balcony 
window. The figure of the aged woman in the most gorgeous 
of her mildewed velvets and brocades was seen passing from 


338 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


casement to casement, until she paused before the balcony 
and flourished a huge key above her head. Her wrinkled 
visage actually gleamed with triumph, as if the soul within 
her were a festal lamp. 

“What means this blaze of light? What does old Esther’s 
joy portend?” whispered a spectator. “It is frightful to see 
her gliding about the chambers and rejoicing there without 
a soul to bear her company.” 

“ It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,” said another. 

“ Pshaw ! It is no such mystery,” observed an old man, 
after some brief exercise of memory. “ Mistress Dudley is 
keeping jubilee for the king of England’s birthday.” 

Then the people laughed aloud, and would have thrown 
mud against the blazing transparency of the king’s crown 
and initials, only that they pitied the poor old dame who was 
so dismally triumphant amid the wreck and ruin of the system 
to which she appertained. 

Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary staircase 
that wound upward to the cupola, and thence strain her 
dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward, watching for a 
British fleet or for the march of a grand procession with 
the king’s banner floating over it. The passengers in the 
street below would discern her anxious visage and send up 
a shout : “ When the golden Indian on the Province House 

shall shoot his arrow, and when the cock on the Old South 
spire shall crow, then look for a royal governor again ! ” for 
this had grown a by-word through the town. And at last, 
after long, long years, old Esther Dudley knew — or perchance 
she only dreamed — that a royal governor was on the eve of 
returning to the Province House to receive the heavy key 
which Sir William Howe had committed to her charge. 
Now, it was the fact that intelligence bearing some faint 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 


339 


analogy to Esther’s version of it was current among the 
townspeople. She set the mansion in the best order that her 
means allowed, and, arraying herself in silks and tarnished 
gold, stood long before the blurred mirror to admire her 
own magnificence. As she gazed, the gray and withered 
lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring half aloud, talking 
to shapes that she saw within the mirror, to shadows of her 
own fantasies, to the household friends of memory, and bid- 
ding them rejoice with her and come forth to meet the 
governor. And while absorbed in this communion Mistress 
Dudley heard the tramp of many footsteps in the street, and 
looking out at the window, beheld what she construed as the 
royal governor’s arrival. 

“ Oh, happy day ! Oh, blessed, blessed hour ! ” she ex- 
claimed. “ Let me but bid him welcome within the portal, 
and my task in the Province House and on earth is done.” 
Then, with tottering feet which age and tremulous joy caused 
to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand staircase, her 
silks sweeping and rustling as she went ; so that the sound 
was as if a train of special courtiers were thronging from 
the dim mirror. 

And Esther Dudley fancied that as soon as the wide door 
should be flung open all the pomp and splendor of bygone 
times would pace majestically into the Province House and 
the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened by the 
sunshine of the present. She turned the key, withdrew if 
from the lock, unclosed the door and stepped across th# 
threshold. Advancing up the courtyard appeared a person o*. 
most dignified mien, with tokens, as Esther interpreted them 
of gentle blood, high rank and long-accustomed authority 
even in his walk and every gesture. He was richly dressed, 
but wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did not lessen the 


340 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


stateliness of his gait. Around and behind him were people 
in plain civic dresses and two or three war-worn veterans — 
evidently officers of rank — arrayed in a uniform of blue and 
buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in the belief that had fastened 
its roots about her heart, beheld only the principal personage, 
and never doubted that this was the long-looked-for gover- 
nor to whom she was to surrender up her charge. As he 
approached she involuntarily sank down on her knees and 
tremblingly held forth the heavy key. 

“ Receive my trust ! Take it quickly,” cried she, “ for 
methinks Death is striving to snatch away my triumph. But 
he comes too late. Thank Heaven for this blessed hour ! 
God save King George ! ” 

“ That, madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up at 
such a moment,” replied the unknown guest of the Province 
House, and, courteously removing his hat, he offered his arm 
to raise the aged woman. “ Yet, in reverence for your gray 
hairs and long-kept faith, Heaven forbid that any here should 
say you nay. Over the realms which still acknowledge his 
sceptre, God save King George ! ” 

Esther Dudley started to her feet, and, hastily clutching 
back the key, gazed with fearful earnestness at the stranger, 
and dimly and doubtfully, as if suddenly awakened from a 
dream, her bewildered eyes half recognized his face. Years 
ago she had known him among the gentry of the Province, 
but the ban of the king had fallen upon him. How, then, 
came the doomed victim here? Proscribed, excluded from 
mercy, the monarch’s most dreaded and hated foe, this New 
England merchant had stood triumphantly against a king- 
dom’s strength, and his foot now trod upon humbled royalty 
as he ascended the steps of the Province House, the people’s 
chosen governor of Massachusetts. 


OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 


341 


“Wretch, wretch that I am!” muttered the old woman, 
with such a heartbroken expression that the tears gushed 
from the stranger’s eyes. “Have I bidden a traitor welcome? 
— Come, Death ! come quickly ! ” 

“ Alas, venerable lady ! ” said Governor Hancock, lending 
her his support with all the reverence that a courtier would 
have shown to a queen, “ your life has been prolonged until the 
world has changed around you. You have treasured up all 
that time has rendered worthless — the principles, feelings, 
manners, modes of being and acting which another generation 
has flung aside — and you are a symbol of the past. And I 
and these around me — we represent a new race of men 
living no longer in the past, scarcely in the present, but pro- 
jecting our lives forward into the future. Ceasing to model 
ourselves on ancestral superstitions, it is our faith and prin- 
ciple to press onward — onward. — Yet,” continued he, turning 
to his attendants, “ let us reverence for the last time the 
stately and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering past.” 

While the republican governor spoke he had continued to 
support the helpless form of Esther Dudley; her weight grew 
heavier against his arm, but at last, with a sudden effort 
to free herself, the ancient woman sank down beside one of 
the pillars of the portal. The key of the Province House 
fell from her grasp and clanked against -the stone. 

“ I have been faithful unto death,” murmured she. “ God 
save the King ! ” 

“ She hath done her office,” said Hancock, solemnly. “ We 
will follow her reverently to the tomb of her ancestors, and 
then, my fellow-citizens, onward — onward. We are no 
longer children of the past.” 

As the old loyalist concluded his narrative the enthusiasm 


342 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


which had been fitfully flashing within his sunken eyes and 
quivering across his wrinkled visage faded away, as if all 
the lingering fire of his soul were extinguished. Just then, 
too, a lamp upon the mantle-piece threw out a dying gleam, 
which vanished as speedily as it shot upward, compelling our 
eyes to grope for one another’s features by the dim glow 
of the hearth. With such a lingering fire methought, with 
such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient system 
vanished from the Province House when the spirit of old 
Esther Dudley took its flight. And now, again, the clock 
of the Old South threw its voice of ages on the breeze, 
knolling the hourly knell of the past, crying out far and wide 
through the multitudinous city, and filling our ears, as we 
sat in the dusky chamber, with its reverberating depth of 
tone. In that same mansion — in that very chamber — what 
a volume of history had been told off into hours by the same 
voice that was now trembling in the air ! Many a governor 
had heard those midnight accents, and longed to exchange his 
stately cares for slumber. And, as for mine host and Mr. 
Bela Tiffany and the old loyalist and me, we had babbled 
about dreams of the past until we almost fancied that the 
clock was still striking in a bygone century. Neither of us 
would have wondered had a hoop-petticoated phantom of 
Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber, walking her rounds 
in the hush of midnight as of yore, and motioned us to 
quench the fading embers of the fire and leave the historic 
precincts to herself and her kindred shades. But, as no 
such vision was vouchsafed, I retired unbidden, and would 
advise Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being 
resolved not to show my face in the Province House for a 
good while hence — if ever. 


THE HAUNTED MIND 

What a singular moment is the first one, when you have 
hardly begun to recollect yourself, after starting from mid- 
night slumber ! By unclosing your eyes so suddenly you 
seem to have surprised the personages of your dream in full 
convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at 
them before they can flit into obscurity. Or, to vary the 
metaphor, you find yourself for a single instant wide awake 
in that realm of illusions whither sleep has been the passport, 
and behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery with 
a perception of their strangeness such as you never attain 
while the dream is undisturbed. The distant sound of a 
church-clock is borne faintly on the wind. You question with 
yourself, half seriously, whether it has stolen to your waking 
ear from some gray tower that stood within the precincts of 
your dream. While yet in suspense another clock flings its 
heavy clang over the slumbering town with so full and dis- 
tinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the neighboring 
air, that you are certain it must proceed from the steep.e 
at the nearest corner. You count the strokes — one, two; 
and there they cease with a booming sound like the gathering 
of a third stroke within the bell. 

If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the 
whole night, it would be this. Since your sober bedtime, at 
eleven, you have had rest enough to take off the pressure 
of yesterday’s fatigue, while before you, till the sun comes 

343 


344 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


from “ Far Cathay ” to brighten your window, there is almost 
the space of a summer night — one hour to be spent in 
thought with the mind’s eye half shut, and two in pleasant 
dreams, and two in that strangest of enjoyments the forget- 
fulness alike of joy and woe. The moment of rising belongs 
to another period of time, and appears so distant that the 
plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty air cannot yet be 
anticipated with dismay. Yesterday has already vanished 
among the shadows of the past; tomorrow has not yet 
emerged for the future. You have found an intermediate 
space where the business of life does not intrude, where the 
passing moment lingers and becomes truly the present ; a spot 
where Father Time, when he thinks nobody is watching him, 
sits down by the wayside to take breath. Oh, that he would 
fall asleep and let mortals live on without growing older ! 

Hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the slightest 
motion would dissipate the fragments of your slumber. Now, 
being irrevocably awake, you peep through the half-drawn 
window-curtains, and observe that the glass is ornamented 
with fanciful devices in frost-work, and that each pane 
presents something like a frozen dream. There will be time 
enough to trace out the analogy while waiting the summons 
to breakfast. Seen through the clear portion of the glass' 
where the silvery mountain-peaks of the frost scenery do not 
ascend, the most conspicuous object is the steeple, the white 
spire of which directs you to the wintry lustre of the firma- 
ment. You may almost distinguish the figures on the clock 
that has just told the hour. Such a frosty sky and the snow- 
covered roofs and the long vista of the frozen street, all 
white, and the distant water hardened into rock, might make 
you shiver even under four blankets and a woollen comforter. 
Yet look at that one glorious star! Its beams are distinguish- 


THE HAUNTED MIND 


345 


able from all the rest, and actually cast the shadow of the 
casement on the bed with a radiance of deeper hue than 
moonlight, though not so accurate an outline. 

You sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, shiver- 
ing all the while, but less from bodily chill than the bare idea 
of a polar atmosphere. It is too cold even for the thoughts 
to venture abroad. You speculate on the luxury of wearing 
out a whole existence in bed like an oyster in its shell, 
content with the sluggish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily 
conscious of nothing but delicious warmth such as you now 
feel again. Ah ! that idea has brought a hideous one in its 
train. You think how the dead are lying in their cold 
shrouds and narrow coffins through the drear winter of the 
grave, and cannot persuade your fancy that they neither 
shrink nor shiver when the snow is drifting over their little 
hillocks and the bitter blast howls against the door of the 
tomb. That gloomy thought will collect a gloomy multitude 
and throw its complexion over your wakeful hour. . 

In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, 
though the lights, the music and revelry, above may cause 
us to forget their existence and the buried ones or prisoners 
whom they hide. But sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, 
those dark receptacles are flung wide open. In an hour like 
this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active 
strength — when the imagination is a mirror imparting vivid- 
ness to all ideas without the power of selecting or controlling 
them — then pray that your griefs may slumber and the 
brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. It is too late. 
A funeral train comes gliding by your bed in which passion 
and feeling assume bodily shape, and things of the mind 
become dim spectres to the eye. There is your earliest sor- 
row, a pale young mourner wearing a sister’s likeness to first 


346 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


love, sadly beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in her melan- 
choly features and grace in the flow of her sable robe. Next 
appears a shade of ruined loveliness with dust among her 
golden hair and her bright garments all faded and defaced, 
stealing from your glance with drooping head, as fearful of 
reproach ; she was your fondest hope, but a delusive one ; 
so call her Disappointment now. A sterner form succeeds, 
with a brow of wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron authority ; 
there is no name for him unless it be Fatality — an emblem 
of the evil influence that rules your fortunes, a demon to 
whom you subjected yourself by some error at the outset of 
life, and were bound his slave forever by once obeying him. 
See those fiendish lineaments graven on the darkness, the 
writhed lip of scorn, the mockery of that living eye, the 
pointed finger touching the sore place in your heart ! Do 
you remember any act of enormous folly at which you 
would blush even in the remotest cavern of the earth? Then 
recognize your shame. 

Pass, wretched band! Well for the wakeful one if, riot- 
ously miserable, a fiercer tribe do not surround him — the 
devils of a guilty heart that holds its hell within itself. What 
if remorse should assume the features of an injured friend? 
What if the fiend should come in woman’s garments with a 
pale beauty amid sin and desolation, and lie down by your 
Mde? What if he should stand at your bed’s foot in the 
likeness of a corpse with a bloody stain upon the shroud? 
Sufficient without such guilt is this nightmare of the soul, 
this heavy, heavy sinking of the spirits, this wintry gloom 
about the heart, this indistinct horror of the mind blending 
itself with the darkness of the chamber. 

By a desperate effort you start upright, breaking from a 
sort of conscious sleep and gazing wildly round the bed 


THE HAUNTED MIND 347 

as if the fiends were anywhere but in your haunted mind. 
At the same moment the slumbering embers on the hearth 
send forth a gleam which palely illuminates the whole outer 
room and flickers through the door of the bed chamber, but 
cannot quite dispel its obscurity. Your eye searches for 

I whatever may remind you of the living world. With eager 
minuteness you take note of the table near the fireplace, the 
book with an ivory knife between its leaves, the unfolded 
letter, the hat and the fallen glove. Soon the flame vanishes, 
and with it the whole scene is gone, though its image remains 
an instant in your mind’s eye when darkness has swallowed 
the reality. Throughout the chamber there is the same 
obscurity as before, but not the same gloom within youf 
breast. 

As your head falls back upon the pilow you think — in a 
whisper be it spoken — how pleasant in these night solitude? 
would be the rise and fall of a softer breathing than your 
own, the slight pressure of a tenderer bosom, the quiet throb 
of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to your troubled 
one, as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her dream. 
Her influence is over you, though she have no existence but 
in that momentary image. You sink down in a flowery spot 
on the borders of sleep and wakefulness, while your thoughts 
rise before you in pictures, all disconnected, yet all assimilated 
by a pervading gladsomeness and beauty. The wheeling of 
gorgeous squadrons that glitter in the sun is succeeded by 
the merriment of children round the door of a schoolhouse 
beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees at the corner 
of a rustic lane. You stand in the sunny rain of a summer 
shower, and wander among the sunny trees of an autumnal 
wood, and look upward at the brightest of all rainbows over- 
arching the unbroken sheet of snow on the American side 


348 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


of Niagara. Your mind struggles pleasantly between the 
dancing radiance round the hearth of a young man and his 
recent bride and the twittering flight of birds in spring about 
their new-made nest. You feel the merry bounding of a ship 
before the breeze, and watch the tuneful feet of rosy girls 
as they twine their last and merriest dance in a splendid 
ball-room, and find yourself in the brilliant circle of a crowded 
theatre as the curtain falls over a light and airy scene. 

With an involuntary start you seize hold on consciousness, 
and prove yourself but half awake by running a doubtful 
parallel between human life and the hour which has now 
elapsed. In both you emerge from mystery, pass through a 
vicissitude that you can but imperfectly control, and are 
borne onward to another mystery. Now comes the peal of 
the distant clock with fainter and fainter strokes as you 
phnge farther into the wilderness of sleep. It is the knell 
of \ temporary death. Your spirit has departed, and strays 
lik* a free citizen among the people of a shadowy world, be- 
ho? ling strange sights, yet without wonder or dismay. So 
caLn, perhaps, will be the final change — so undisturbed, as 
if among familiar things, the entrance of the soul to the 
•if *nal home. 


I N 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


AN IMAGINARY RETROSPECT. 

Come! another log upon the hearth. True, our little parlor 
is comfortable, especially here where the old man sits in his 
old arm-chair; but on Thanksgiving-night the blaze should 
dance higher up the chimney and send a shower of sparks 
into the outer darkness. Toss on an armful of those dry 
oak chips, the last, relics of the Mermaid’s knee-timbers — 
the bones of your namesake, Susan. Higher yet, and clearer, 
be the blaze, till our cottage windows glow the ruddiest in the 
village and the light of our household mirth flash far across 
the bay to Nahant. 

And now come, Susan ; come, my children. Draw your 
chairs round me, ali of you. There is a dimness over your 
figures. You sit quivering indistinctly with each motion of 
the blaze, which eddies about you like a flood; so that you 
all have the look of visions or people that dwell only in the 
firelight, and will vanish from existence as completely as your 
own shadows when the flame shall sink among the embers. 

Hark ! let me listen for the swell of the surf ; it should be 
audible a mile inland on a night like this. Yes; there I 
catch the sound, but only an uncertain murmur, as if a -good 
way down over the beach, though by the almanac it is high 
tide at eight o’clock, and the billows must now be dashing 
within thirty yards of our door. Ah ! the old man’s ears are 
failing him, and so is his eyesight, and perhaps his mind, 

349 


350 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


else you would not all be so shadowy in the blaze of his 
Thanksgiving fire. 

How strangely the past is peeping over the shoulders of 
the present! To judge by my recollections it is but a few 
moments since I sat in another room. Yonder model of a 
vessel was not there, nor the old chest of drawers, nor Susan’s 
profile and mine in that gilt frame — nothing in short, except 
this same fire, which glimmered on bookt, papers and a 
picture, and half discovered my solitary figure in a looking- 
glass. But it was paler than my rugged old self, and younger, 
too, by almost half a century. 

Speak to me, Susan ; speak, my beloved ones ; for the scene 
is glimmering on my sight again, and as it brightens you 
fade away. Oh, I should be loth to lose my treasure of past 
happiness and become once more what I was then — a hermit 
in the depths of my own mind, sometimes yawning over 
drowsy volumes and anon a scribbler of wearier trash than 
what I read ; a man who had wandered out of the real world 
and got into its shadow, where his troubles, joys and vicissi- 
tudes were of such slight stuff that he hardly knew whether 
he lived or only dreamed of living. Thank Heaven I am an 
old man now and have done with all such vanities ! ” 

Still this dimness of mine eyes ! — Come nearer, Susan, and 
stand before the fullest blaze of the hearth. Now I behold 
you illuminated from head to foot, in your clean cap and 
decent gown, with the dear lock of gray hair across your 
forehead and a quiet smile about your mouth, while the eyes 
alone are concealed by the red gleam of the fire upon your 
spectacles. There! you made me tremble again. When the 
flame quivered, my sweet Susan, you quivered with it, and 
grew indistinct, as if melting into the warm light, that my 
last glimpse, of you might be as visionary as the first was, 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


351 


full many *a year since. Do you remember it? You stood 
on the little bridge over the brook that runs across King’s 
Beach into the sea. It was twilight, the waves rolling in, 
the wind sweeping by, the crimson clouds fading in the 
west and the silver moon brightening above the hill; and on 
the bridge were you, fluttering in the breeze like a sea-bird 
that might skim away at your pleasure. You seemed a daugh- 
ter of the viewless wind, a creature of the ocean foam and the 
crimson light, whose merry life was spent in dancing on the 
crests of the billows that threw up their spray to support your 
footsteps. As I drew nearer, I fancied you akin to the race 
of mermaids, and thought how pleasant it would be to dwell 
with you among the quiet coves in the shadow of the cliffs, 
and to roam along secluded beaches of the purest sand, and 
when our Northern shores grew bleak, to haunt the islands 
green and lonely far amid summer seas. And yet it gladdened 
me, after all this nonsense, to find you nothing but a pretty- 
young girl, sadly perplexed at the rude behavior of the wind 
about your petticoats. Thus I did with Susan as with most 
other things in my earlier days, dipping her image into my 
mind and coloring it of a thousand fantastic hues before I 
could see her, as she really was. 

Now, Susan, for a sober picture of our village. It was a 
small collection of dwellings that seemed to have been cast up 
by the sea with the rock-weed and marine plants that it 
vomits after a storm, or to have come ashore among the 
pipe-staves and other lumber which had been washed from 
the deck of an Eastern schooner. There was just space 
for the narrow and sandy street between the beach in front 
and a precipitous hill that lifted its rocky forehead in the 
rear among a waste of juniper bushes and the wild growth of 
a broken pasture. The village was picturesque in the variety 


352 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


of its edifices, though all were rude. Here stood a* little old 
hovel, built, perhaps, of driftwood, there a row of boat- 
houses, and beyond them a two story dwelling of dark, and 
weatherbeaten aspect the whole intermixed with one or two 
snug cottages painted white, a sufficiency of pig-styes and a 
shoemaker’s shop. Two grocery stores stood opposite each 
other in the centre of the village. These were the places of 
resort at their idle hours of a hardy throng of fishermen in 
red baize shirts, oilcloth trousers and boots of brown leather 
covering the whole leg — true seven-league boots, but fitter 
to wade the ocean than walk the earth. 'J'he wearers seemed 
amphibious, as if they did but creep out of salt water to sun 
themselves ; nor would it have been wonderful to see their 
lower limbs covered with clusters of little shell-fish such as 
cling to rocks and old ship timber over which the tide ebbs 
, and flows. When their fleet of boats was weather-bound, 
the butchers raised their price, and the spit was busier than 
the frying pan, for this was a place of fish, and known as 
such to all the country round about. The very air was fishy, 
being perfumed with dead sculpins, hard-heads and dogfish 
strewn plentifully on the beach. — You see, children, the village 
is but little changed since your mother and I were young. 

LIow like a dream it was when I bent over a pool of water 
one pleasant morning and saw that the ocean had dashed 
its spray over me and made me a fisherman ! There was the 
tarpaulin, the baize shirt, the oilcloth trousers and seven- 
league boots, and there my own features, but so reddened 
with sunburn and sea-breezes that methought I had another 
face, and on other shoulders too. The seagulls and the loons 
and I had now all one trade : we skjmmed the crested waves 
and sought our prey beneath them, the man with as keen enjoy- 
ment as tfie birds. Always when the east grew purple I 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


353 


launched my dory, my little flat-bottomed skiff, and rowed 
cross-handed to Point Ledge, the Middle Ledge, or perhaps 
beyond Egg Rock; often, too, did I anchor off Dread Ledge 

a spo.t of peril to ships unpiloted — and sometimes Spread 
an adventurous sail and tracked across the bay to South 
Shore, casting my lines in sight of Scituate. Ere nightfall 
I hauled my skiff high and dry on the beach, laden with red 
rock-cod or the white-bellied ones of deep water, haddock 
bearing the black marks of St. Peter’s fingers* near the gills, 
the long-bearded hake whose liver holds oil enough for a 
midnight lamp, and now and then a mighty halibut with a 
back broad as my boat. In the autumn I toled and caught 
those lovely fish the mackerel. When the wind was high, 
when the whale-boats anchored off the Point nodded their 
slender masts at each other and the dories pitched and tossed 
in the surf, when Nahant Beach was thundering three miles 
off and the spray broke a hundred feet in the air round 
the distant base of Egg Rock, when the brimful and boisterous 
sea threatened to tumble over the street of our village, — then 
I made a holiday on shore. 

Many such a day did I sit snugly in Mr. Bartlett’s store, 
attentive to the yarns of Uncle Parker — uncle to the whole 
village by right of seniority, but of Southern blood, with no 
kindred in New England. His figure is before me now, 
enthroned upon a mackerel-barrel — a lean old man of great 
height, but bent with years and twisted into an uncouth shape 
by seven broken limbs ; furrowed, aiso, and weather- worn, 
as if every gale for the better part of a century had caught 
him somewhere on the sea. He looked like a harbinger of 
tempest — a shipmate of the Flying Dutchman. After in- 

* Peter’s fish, so called for the spot on each side near the pectoral 
fin, fancied to be the marks made by St. Peter’s thumb and finger when, 
it is said, he caught the fish for tribute. — Cf. also Century Dictionary. 


354 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


numerable voyages aboard men-of-war and merchantmen, fish- 
ing schooners and Chebacco-boats, the old salt had become 
master of a hand-cart, which he daily trundled about the 
vicinity, and sometimes blew his fish-horn through the streets 
of Salem. One of Uncle Parker’s eyes had beep blown out 
with gunpowder, and the other did but glimmer in its socket. 
Turning it upward as he spoke, it was his delight to tell of 
cruises against the French and battles with his own ship- 
mates, when he and an antagonist used to be seated astride of 
a sailor’s chest, each fastened down by a spike-nail through 
his trousers, and there to fight it out. Sometimes he expa- 
tiated on the delicious flavor of the hagden, a greasy and 
goose-like fowl which the sailors catch with hook and line on 
the Grand Banks. He dwelt with rapture on an interminable 
winter at the Isle of Sables, where he had gladdened himself 
amid polar snows with the rum and sugar saved from the 
wreck of a West India schooner. And wrathfully did he 
shake his fist as he related how a party of Cape Cod men 
had robbed him and his companions of their lawful spoils 
and sailed away with every keg of old Jamaica, leaving him 
not a drop to drown his sorrow. Villains they were, and of 
that wicked brotherhood who are said to tie lanterns to 
horses’ tails to mislead the mariner along the dangerous 
shores of the Cape. 

Even now I seem to see the group of fishermen with that 
old salt in the midst. One fellow sits on the counter, a 
second bestrides an oil-barrel, a third lolls at his length on 
a parcel of new cod-lines, and another has planted the tarry 
seat of his trousers on a heap of salt which will shortly 
be sprinkled over a lot of fish. They are a likely set of men. 
Some have voyaged to the East Indies or the Pacific, and 
m^st of them have sailed in Marblehead schooners to New- 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


355 


foundland; a few have been no farther than the Middle 
Banks, and one or two have always fished along the shore; 
but, as Uncle Parker used to say, they have all been christened 
in salt water and know more than men ever learn in the 
bushes. A curious figure, by way of contrast, is a fish-dealer 
from far up-country listening with eyes wide open to narra- 
tives that might startle Sinbad the Sailor. — Be it well with 
you, my brethren! Ye are all gone — some to your graves 
ashore and others to the depths of ocean — but my faith is 
strong that ye are happy; for whenever I behold your forms, 
whether in dream or vision, each departed friend is puffing 
his long nine, and a mug of the right blackstrap goes round 
from lip to lip. 

But where was the mermaid in those delightful times? At 
a certain window near the centre of the village appeared a 
pretty display of gingerbread men and horses, picture-books 
and ballads, small fish-hooks, pins, needles, sugar-plums and 
brass thimbles — articles on which the young fishermen used 
to expend their money from pure gallantry. What a picture 
was Susan behind the counter ! A slender maiden, though 
the child of rugged parents, she had the slimmest of all waists, 
brown hair curling on her neck, and a complexion rather pale 
except where the sea-breeze flushed it. A few freckles be- 
came beauty-spots beneath her eyelids. — How was it, Susan, 
that you talked and acted so carelessly, yet always for the 
best, doing whatever was right in your own eyes, and never 
once doing wrong in mine, nor shocked a taste that had been 
morbidly sensitive till now? And whence had you that hap- 
piest gift of brightening every topic with an unsought gayety, 
quiet but irresistible, so that even gloomy spirits felt your sun- 
shine and did not shrink from it? Nature wrought the 
charm. She made you a frank, simple, kind-hearted, sensi- 


356 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ble and mirthful girl. Obeying Nature, you did free things 
without indelicacy, displayed a maiden’s thoughts to every 
eye, and proved yourself as innocent as naked Eve. It was 
beautiful to observe how her simple and happy nature min- 
gled itself with mine. She kindled a domestic fire within 
my heart and took up her dwelling there, even in that chill 
and lonesome cavern hung round with glittering icicles of 
fancy. She gave me warmth of feeling, while the influ- 
ence of my mind made her contemplative. I taught her to 
love the moonlight hour, when the expanse of the encir- 
cled bay was smooth as a great mirror and slept in a trans- 

parent shadow, while beyond Nahant the wind rippled the 
dim ocean into a dreamy brightness which grew faint afar 
off without becoming gloomier. I held her hand and pointed 
to the long surf-wave as it rolled calmly on the beach in 
an unbroken line of silver ; we were silent together till its 
deep and peaceful murmur had swept by us. When the 
Sabbath sun shone down into the recesses of the cliffs, I led 
the mermaid thither and told her that those huge gray, shat- 
tered rocks, and her native sea that raged forever like a 
storm against them, and her own slender beauty in so 
stern a scene, were all combined into a strain of poetry. 

But on the Sabbath eve, when her mother had gone early to 
bed and her gentle sister had smiled and left us, as we 

sat alone by the quiet hearth with household things around, 
it was her turn to make me feel that here was a deeper 
poetry, and that this was the dearest hour of all. Thus 
went on our wooing, till I had shot wild-fowl enough to 
feather our bridal-bed, and the daughter of the sea was 
mine. 

I built a cottage for Susan and myself, and made a gate- 
way in the form of a Gothic arch by setting up a whale’s 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


357 


jaw bones. We bought a heifer with her first calf, and had 
a little garden on the hillside to supply us with potatoes 
and green sauce for our fish. Our parlor, small and neat, was 
ornamented with our two profiles in one gilt frame, and with 
shells and pretty pebbles on the mantelpiece, selected from 
the sea’s treasury of such things on Nahant Beach. On the 
desk, beneath the looking-glass, lay the Bible, which I had be- 
gun to read aloud at the book of Genesis, and the singing-book 
that Susan used for her evening psalm. Except the alma- 
nac, we had no other literature. All that I heard of books 
was when an Indian history or tale of shipwreck was sold 
by a pedler or wandering subscription man to some one in 
the village, and read through its owner’s nose to a slumbrous 
auditory. 

Like my brother fishermen, I grew into the belief that 
all human erudition was collected in our pedagogue, whose 
green spectacles and solemn phiz as he passed to his little 
schoolhouse amid a waste of sand might have gained him a 
diploma from any college in New England. In truth, I 
dreaded him. When our children were old enough to claim 
his care, you remember, Susan, how I frowned, though you 
were pleased at this learned man’s encomiums on their pro- 
ficiency. I feared to trust them even with the alphabet; it 
was the key to a fatal treasure. But I loved to lead them by 
their little hands along the beach and point to nature in the 
vast and the minute — the sky, the sea, the green earth, the 
pebbles and the shells. Then did I discourse of the mighty 
works, and coextensive goodness of the Deity with the simple 
wisdom of a man whose mind had profited by lonely days 
upon the deep and his heart by the strong and pure affec- 
tions of his evening home. Sometimes my voice lost itself 
in a tremulous depth, for I felt his eye upon me as I spoke. 


358 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Once, while my wife and all of us were gazing at ourselves 
in the mirror left by the tide in a hollow of the sand, I 
pointed to the pictured heaven below and bade her observe 
how religion was strewn everywhere in our path, since even 
a casual pool of water recalled the idea of that home whither 
we were traveling to rest forever with our children. Sud- 
denly your image, Susan, and all the little faces made up of 
.yours and mine, seemed to fade away and vanish around me, 
leaving a pale visage like my own of former days within the 
frame of a large looking-glass. Strange illusion ! 

My life glided on, the past appearing to mingle with the 
present and absorb the future, till the whole lies before me at 
a glance. My manhood has long been waning with a stanch 
decay; my earlier contemporaries, after lives of unbroken 
health, are all at rest without having known the weariness 
of later age; and now with a wrinkled forehead and thin 
white hair as badges of my dignity I have become the patri- 
arch — the uncle — of the village. I love that name ; it widens 
the circle of my sympathies; it joins all the youthful to my 
household in the kindred of affection. 

Like Unele Parker, whose rheumatic bones were dashed 
against Egg Rock full forty years ago, I am a spinner of 
long yarns. Seated on the gunnel of a dory or on the 
sunny side of a boat-house, where the warmth is grateful to 
my limbs, or by my own hearth when a friend or two are 
there, I overflow with talk, and yet am never tedious. With 
a broken voice I give utterance to much wisdom. Such, 
Heaven be praised! is the vigor of my faculties that many 
a forgotten usage, and traditions ancient in my youth, and 
early adventures of myself or others hitherto effaced by things 
more recent, acquire new distinctness in my memory. I re- 
member the happy days when the haddock were more numer- 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


359 


ous on all the fishing-grounds than sculpins in the surf — 
when the deep-water cod swam close in-shore, and the dog- 
fish, with his poisonous horn, had not learnt to take the 
hook. I can number every equinoctial storm in which the sea 
has overwhelmed the street, flooded the cellars of the vil- 
lage and hissed upon our kitchen hearth. I give the history 
of the great whale that was landed on Whale Beach, and 
whose jaws, being now my gateway, will last for ages after 
my coffin shall have passed beneath them. Thence it is an 
easy digression to the halibut — scarcely smaller than the 
whale — which ran out six codlines and hauled my dory 
to the mouth of Boston harbor before I could touch him 
with the gaff. 

If melancholy accidents be the theme of conversation, I tell 
how a friend of mine was taken out of his boat by an enor- 
mous shark, and the sad, true tale of a young man on the 
eve of marriage who had been nine days missing, when his 
drowned body floated into the very pathway on Marblehead 
Neck that had often led him to the dwelling of his bride, as 
if the dripping corpse would have come where the mourner 
was. With such awful fidelity did that lover return to fulfill 
his vows ! Another favorite story is of a crazy maiden who 
conversed with angels and had the gift of prophecy, and 
whom all the village loved and pitied, though she went from 
door to door accusing us of sin, exhorting to repentance, and 
foretelling our destruction by flood or earthquake. If the 
young men boast their knowledge of the ledges and sunken 
rocks, I speak of pilots who knew the wind by its scent and 
the wave by its taste, and could have steered blindfold to any 
port between Boston and Mount Desert guided only by the 
rote of the shore — the peculiar sound of the surf on each 
island, beach and line of rocks along the coast. Thus do 1 


360 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


talk, and all my auditors grow wise while they deem it pas- 
time. 

I recollect no happier portion of * my life than this my 
calm old age. It is like the sunny and sheltered slope of a 
Valley where late in the autumn the grass is greener than in 
August, and intermixed with golden dandelions that had 
not been seen till now since the first warmth of the year. 
But with me the verdure and the flowers are not frost- 
bitten in the midst of winter. A playfulness has revisited 
my mind — a sympathy with the young and gay, an unpainful 
interest in the business of others, a light and wandering 
curiosity — arising, perhaps, from the sense that my toil 
on earth is ended and the brief hour till bedtime may be 
spent in play. Still, I have fancied that there is a depth of 
feeling and reflection under this superficial levity peculiar to 
one who has lived long, and is soon to die. 

Show me anything that would make an infant smile, and 
you shall behold a gleam of mirth over the hoary ruin of 
my visage. I can spend a pleasant hour in . the sun watching 
the sports of the village children on the edge of the surf. 
Now they chase the retreating wave far down over the wet 
sand ; now it steals softly up to kiss their naked feet ; now 
it comes onward with threatening front, and roars after the 
laughing crew as they scamper beyond its reach. Why 
should not an old man be merry too, when the great sea is 
at play with those little children? I delight, also, to follow 
in the wake of a pleasure party of young men and girls 
strolling along the beach after an early supper at the Point. 
Here, with handkerchiefs at nose, they bend over a heap of 
eel grass entangled in which is a dead skate so oddly ac- 
coutred with two legs and a long tail that they mistake him 
for a drowned animal. A few steps farther the ladies scream, 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


36i 


and the gentlemen make ready to protect them against a 
young shark of the dogfish kind, rolling with a lifelike motion 
in the tide that has thrown him up. Next they are smit with 
wonder at the black shells of a wagon-load of live lobsters 
packed in rock-weed for the country market. And when 
they reach the fleet of dories just hauled ashore after the 
day’s fishing, how do I laugh in my sleeve, and sometimes 
roar outright, at the simplicity of these young folks and the 
sly humor of the fishermen ! In winter, when our village is 
thrown into a bustle by the arrival of perhaps a score of 
country dealers bargaining for frozen. fish to be transported 
hundreds of miles and eaten fresh in Vermont or Canada, 
I am a pleased but idle spectator in the throng. For I launch 
my boat no more. 

When the shore was solitary, I have found a pleasure that 
seemed even to exalt my mind in observing the sports or 
contentions of two gulls as they wheeled and hovered about 
each other with hoarse screams, one moment flapping on the 
foam of the wave, and then soaring aloft till their white 
bosoms melted into the upper sunshine. In the calm of the 
summer sunset I drag my aged limbs with a little ostenta- 
tion of activity, because I am so old, up to the rocky brow of 
the hill. There I see the white sails of many a vessel out- 
ward bound or homeward from afar, and the black trail of 
a vapor behind the Eastern steamboat ; there, too, is the 
sun, going down, but not in gloom, and there the illimitable 
ocean mingling with the sky, to remind me of eternity. 

But the sweetest of all is the hour of cheerful musing and 
pleasant talk that comes between the dusk and the lighted 
candle by my glowing fireside. And never even on the first 
Thanksgiving night, when Susan ^id I sat alone with our 
hopes, nor the second, when a stranger had been sent to 


362 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


gladden us and be the visible image of our affection, did I 
feel such joy as now. All that belongs to me are here; 
Death ,has taken none, nor Disease kept them away, nor 
Strife divided them from their parents or each other ; with 
neither poverty nor riches to disturb them, nor the misery 
of desires beyond their lot, they have kept New England’s 
festival round the patriarch’s board. For I am a patriarch. 
Here I sit among my descendants, in my old arm-chair and 
immemorial corner, while the firelight throws an appropriate 
glory round my venerable frame — Susan ! My children ! 
Something whispers me that this happiest hour must be the 
final one, and that nothing remains but to bless you all and 
depart with a treasure of recollected joys to heaven. Will 
you meet me there? Alas! your figures grow indistinct, 
fading into pictures on the air, and now to fainter outlines, 
while the fire is glimmering on the walls of a familiar room, 
and shows the book that I flung down and the sheet that I left 
half written some fifty years ago. I lift my eyes to the look- 
ing-glass, and perceive myself alone, unless those be the mer- 
maid’s features retiring into the depths of the mirror with a 
tender and melancholy smile. 

Ah ! One feels a chilliness — not bodily, but about the 
heart — and, moreover a foolish dread of looking behind him, 
after these pastimes. I can imagine precisely how a magi- 
cian would sit down in gloom and terror after dismissing the 
shadows that had personated dead or distant people and 
stripping his cavern of the unreal splendor which had changed 
it to a palace. 

And now for a moral to my reverie. Shall it be that, since 
fancy can create so bright a dream of happiness, it were 
better to dream on from youth to age than to awake and 
strive doubtfully for something real? Oh, the slight tissue 


THE VILLAGE UNCLE 


363 


of a dream can no more preserve us from the stern reality of 
misfortune than a robe of cobweb could repel the wintry 
blast. Be this the moral then : In chaste and warm affec- 
tions, humble wishes and honest toil for some useful end 
there is health for the mind and quiet for the heart, the 
prospect of a happy life and the fairest hope of heaven. 


1 J .•■■■■ 

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 

[The following account of the Great Slide is quoted from a 
sketch of The Destruction of the Willey Family by Edward 
Melcher, one of the survivors of the catastrophe, because it 
may fairly be considered to preserve the story in the form in 
which it reached Hawthorne. The crude simplicity of the 
narrative offers an interesting contrast to the highly finished 
art of “The Ambitious Guest.” 

“ In the year 1821 I commenced upon a farm in the town of 
Bartlett, Carroll county, N. H. I bought 100 acres of wild 
land, and only with good courage and a strong arm, had, in 
1826, practically cleared up my small farm from the primitive 
forest. I had got most of the material together for building 
me a nice barn, the frame of which was already up. August 
28, the same year above mentioned, it commenced to rain in the 
morning and rained nearly all day, by showers, till nightfall — 
then the big shower commenced. I began to have some fears 
by that time that we were not quite safe, as our house was 
near a brook that ran through a little meadow, and this brook 
had already grown to be a good sized river. Accordingly I 
took my wife and four children and started for a neighbor's 
who lived about three-fourths of a mile away on the uplands. 
The bridge on which we crossed the brook in front of our 
house was partially afloat. Not more than a minute after we 
were well over, we heard the roar of the rumbling waters 
rushing from the mountain-side near by — sounding like heavy 
thunder. Down came the slide, obstructing the river, raising 
the water over the path we had just trodden to more than ten 
feet deep, and overflowing the little meadow, to the extent of 
fifteen acres, with gravel, rocks, and uprooted trees from the 
mountains. This shower or torrent lasted four hours and then 
cleared off bright star-light, the rumbling of the slides con- 
tinuing most terrific for half an hour. 

We stopped at our neighbor’s till morning, when I went 
back to find my little farm entirely ruined, my barn-frame and 
all the materials for finishing it, swept away, my cow and seven 
or eight pigs saved only by taking refuge on a manure heap, 
the hens perched on the ridge of the house, the river running 
through the cellar. ***** 

364 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 


365 


We arrived at Crawford’s at eleven o’clock p. m., where we 
had supper. We then went up through the Notch, six miles; 
the bridges were all gone — and the roads, too, some of the 
way. We struggled forward till long past midnight,- frequently 
wading through slough-holes, when we arrived at the Willey 
House. 

As soon as it was light in the morning we commenced the 
search. As the family had not been heard from, we were 
satisfied they had been buried under the mountain slide, the 
course of which presented an appalling spectacle. The track 
of the slide reached to within three feet of the house, and had 
carried away one corner of the barn. Across the course of the 
slide, the rocks, gravel and trees were piled and mixed in 
awful confusion for a great distance. It seemed to have sud- 
denly stopped, for the advanced part of the avalanche was mQre 
than perpendicular, the top projecting over that portion that 
rested on the ground — so much so as to form caves. 

It had got to be well toward noon, and in all this time we 
had seen nothing to indicate whe'" i the bodies of the unfortu- 
nate family could be found. Seeing large numbers of flies 
about the entrance, I was led to search one of the caves above 
mentioned. I crawled in quite a number off feet, and dis- 
covered a man’s hand jammed in between two logs. I came 
out and indicated to Thomas Hart and Stephen Willey where 
to dig. We soon came to the body of the man whose hand I 
had seen. It proved to be that of David Allen, a hired man of 
the WiHey’s. Directly behind the body of Allen was that of 
Mrs. Willey. Large numbers of people were soon on the spot 
— but three of us did all the digging. As fast as we got the 
bodies out of the jam they were enshrouded in sheets, and 
buried where the new hotel now stands, in which place they 
remained until the following December, when their bodies 
found a final resting place on the Willey farm in North Con- 
way. Mr. Willey was found below the jam,: — drowned in the 
brook, or possibly killed by the timbers of the demolished 
barn, under which he was found. 

The youngest boy was found a little in rear of his mother, 
and the oldest girl below her father, in the brook. A young 
man about twenty years old, named David Nickerson, whom 
the Willeys had brought up, was also among the lost, his body 
being found the next day about a foot deeper in the rubbish, 
and some four feet from the others. The bodies of the three 
remaining children of the Willeys were never found.”] 


One September night a family had gathered round their 
hearth and piled it high with the driftwood of mountain 


366 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


streams, the dry cones of the pine, and the splintered ruins 
of great trees, that had come crashing down the precipice. 
Up the chimney roared the fire, and brightened the room with 
its broad blaze. The faces of the father and mother had a 
sober gladness; the children laughed. The eldest daughtei 
was the image of Happiness at seventeen, and the aged grand- 
mother, who sat knitting in the warmest place, was the 
image of Happiness grown old. They had found the “ herb 
heart’s-ease ” in the bleakest spot of all New England. This 
family were situated in the Notch of the White Hills, where 
the wind was sharp throughout the year and pitilessly cold in 
the winter, giving their cottage all its fresh inclemency be- 
fore it descended on the /alley of the Saco. They dwelt 
in a cold spot and a dangerous one, for a mountain towered 
above their heads so steep that the stones would often rum- 
ble down its sides and startle them at midnight. 

The daughter had just uttered some simple jest that filled 
them all with mirth, when the wind came through the Notch 
and seemed to pause before their cottage, rattling the door 
with a sound of wailing and lamentation before it passed into 
the valley. For a moment it saddened them, though there 
was nothing unusual in the tones. But the family were glad 
again when they perceived that the latch was lifted by some 
traveler whose footsteps had been unheard amid the dreary 
blast which heralded his approach and wailed as he was 
entering, and went moaning away from the door. 

Though they dwelt in such a solitude, these people held 
daily converse with the world. The romantic pass of the 
Notch is a great artery through which the life-blood of in- 
ternal commerce is continually throbbing between Maine 
on one side and the Green Mountains and the shores of the 
St. Lawrence on the other. The stage coach always drew 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 


307 


up before the door of the cottage. The wayfarer with no 
companion but his staff paused here to exchange a word, 
that the sense of loneliness might not utterly overcome him 
ere he could pass through the cleft of the mountain or reach 
the first house in the valley. And here the teamster on his 
way to Portland market would put up for the night, and, 
if a bachelor, might sit an hour beyond the usual bedtime and 
steal a kiss from the mountain maid at parting. It was one 
of those primitive taverns where the traveler pays only for 
food and lodging, but meets with a homely kindness beyond 
all price. When the footsteps were heard, therefore, between 
the outer door and the inner one, the whole family rose up, 
grandmother, children and all, as if about to welcome some one 
who belonged to them, and whose fate was linked with theirs. 

The door was opened by a young man. His face at first 
wore the melancholy expression, almost despondency, of one* 
who travels a wild and bleak road at nightfall and alone, but 
soon brightened up when he saw the kindly warmth of his re- 
ception. He felt his heart spring forward to meet them all, 
from the old woman who wiped the chair with her apron 
to the little child that held out its arms to him. One glance 
and smile placed the stranger on a footing of innocent fa- 
miliarity with the eldest daughter. 

“Ah ! this fire is the right thing,” cried he, “ especially when 
there is such a pleasant circle round it. I am quite benumbed, 
for the Notch is just like the pipe of a great pair of bellows; 
it has blown a terrible blast in my face all the way from 
Bartlett.” 

“Then you are going toward Vermont?” said the master 
of the house as he helped to take a light knapsack off the 
young man's shoulders. 

“ Yes, to Burlington, and far enough beyond,” replied he. 


/ 


368 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ I meant to have been at Ethan Crawford’s to-night, but a 
pedestrian lingers along such a road as this. It is no mat- 
ter; for when I saw this good fire and all your cheerful 
faces, I felt as if you had kindled it on purpose for me and 
were waiting my arrival. So I shall sit down among you 
and make myself at home.” 

The frank-hearted stranger had just drawn his chair to the 
fire when something like a heavy footstep was heard without, 
rushing down the steep side of the mountain as with long and 
rapid strides, and taking such a leap in passing the cottage as 
to strike the opposite precipice. The family held their breath, 
because they knew the sound, and their guest held his by in- 
stinct. 

“ The old mountain has thrown a stone at us for fear we 
should forget him,” said the landlord, recovering himself. 
“ He sometimes nods his head and threatens to come down, 
but we are old neighbors, and agree together pretty well 
upon tlie whole. Besides, we have a sure place of refuge hard 
by if he should be coming in good earnest.” 

Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his. sup- 
per of bear s meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to 
have placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole 
family; so that they talked as freely together as if he be- 
longed to their jnountain brood. He was of a proud yet 
gentle spirit^ haughty and reserved among the rich and great, 
but ever ready to stoop his head to the lowly cottage door and 
be like a brother or a son at the poor man’s fireside. In the 
household of the Notch he found warmth and simplicity ot 
feeling, the pervading intelligence of New England, and a 
poetry of native growth which they had gathered when they 
little thought of it from the mountain-peaks and chasms, and 
at the very threshold of their romantic and dangerous abode 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 


369 


He had traveled far and alone; his whole life, indeed, had 
been a solitary path, for, with the lofty caution of his nature, 
he had kept himself apart from those who might otherwise 
have been his companions. The family, too, though so kind 
and hospitable, had that consciousness of unity among them- 
selves and separation from the world at large which in 
every domestic circle should still keep a holy place where no 
stranger may intrude. But this evening a prophetic sympathy 
impelled the refined and educated youth to pour out his heart 
before the simple mountaineers, and constrained them to 
answer him with the same free confidence. And thus it should 
have been. Is not the kindred of a common fate a closer 
tie than that of birth? 

The secret of the young man’s character was a high and ab- 
stracted ambition. He could have borne to live an undistin- 
guished life, but not to be forgotten in the grave. Yearning 
desire had been transformed to hope, and hope, long cher- 
ished, had become like certainty that, obscurely as he jour- 
neyed now, a glory was to beam on all his pathway, though 
not, perhaps, while he was treading it. But when posterity 
should gaze back into the gloom of what was now the pres- 
ent, they would trace the brightness of his footsteps, bright- 
ening as meaner glories faded, and confess that a gifted one 
had passed from his cradle to his tomb with none to recog- 
nize him. 

“As yet,” cried the stranger, his cheek glowing and his eye 
flashing with enthusiasm — “as yet I have done nothing. 
Were I to vanish from the earth to-morrow, none would know 
so much of me as you — that a nameless youth came up at 
nightfall from the valley of the Saco, and opened his heart to 
you in the evening, and passed through the Notch by sun- 
rise, and was seen no more. Not a soul would ask, * Who 


370 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


was he? Whither did the wanderer go?’ But I cannot die 
till I have achieved my destiny. Then let Death come; I 
shall have built my monument.” 

There was a continual flow of natural emotion gushing 
forth amid abstracted reverie which enabled the family to 
understand this youfig man’s sentiments, though so foreign 
from their own. With quick sensibility of the ludicrous, he 
blushed at the ardor into which he had been betrayed. 

“ You laugh at me,” said he, taking the eldest daughter’s 
hand and laughing himself. “ You think my ambition as 
nonsensical as if I were to freeze myself to death on the 
top of Mount Washington only that people might spy at me 
from the country round-about. And truly that would be a 
noble pedestal for a man’s statue.” 

“ It is better to sit here by this fire,” answered the girl, blush- 
ing, “ and be comfortable and contented, though nobody 
thinks about us.” 

“ I suppose,” said her father, after a fit of musing, “ there 
is something natural in what the young man says ; and 'if 
my mind had been turned that way, I might have felt just 
the same. It is strange, wife, how his talk has set my head 
running on things that are pretty certain never to come to 
pass.” 

“ Perhaps they may,” observed the wife. “ Is the man 
thinking what he will do when he is a widower?” 

“ No, no ! ” cried he, repelling the idea with reproachful 
kindness. “ When I think of your death, Esther, I think of 
mine, too. But I was wishing we had a good farm in Bart- 
lett or Bethlehem or Littleton, or some other township 
round the White Mountains, but not where they could tumble 
on our heads. I should want to stand well with my neighbors 
and be called squire and sent to General Court for a term or 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 


S71 


two ; for a plain, honest man may do as much good there as 
a lawyer. And when I should be grown quite an old man, 
and you an old woman, so as not to be long apart, I might 
die happy enough in my bed, and leave you all crying around 
me. A slate gravestone would suit me as well as a marble 
one, with just my name and age, and a verse of a hymn, 
and something to let people know that I lived an honest 
man and died a Christian.” 

“ There, now! ” exclaimed the stranger; “ it is our nature 
to desire a monument, be it slate or marble, or a pillar of 
granite, or a glorious memory in the universal heart of 
man.” 

“ We’re in a strange way to-night,” said the wife, with 
tears in her eyes. “ They say it’s a sign of something when 
folks’ minds go a-wandering so. Hark to the children ! ” 
They listened accordingly. The younger children had been 
put to bed in another room, but with an open door between; 
so that they could be heard talking busily among themselves. 
One and all seemed to have caught the infection from the 
fireside circle, and were outvying each other in wild wishes 
and childish projects of what they would do when they came 
to be men and women. At length a little boy, instead of ad- 
dressing his brothers and sisters, called out to his mother: 

“ I’ll tell you what I wish, mother,” cried he : “I want you 
and father and grandma’m, and all of us, and the stranger, 
too, to start right away and go and take a drink out of the 
basin of the Flume.” 

Nobody could help laughing at the child’s notion of leav- 
ing a warm bed and dragging them from a cheerful fire 
to visit the basin of the Flume — a brook which tumbles over 
the precipice deep within the Notch. 

The boy had hardly spoken, when a wagon rattled along 


372 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


the road and stopped a moment before the door. It appeared 
to contain two or three men who were cheering their hearts 
with the rough chorus of a song which resounded in broken 
notes between the cliffs, while the singers hesitated whether to 
continue their journey or put up here for the night. 

“ Father,” said the girl, “ they are calling you by name.” 

But the good man doubted whether they had really 
called him, and was unwilling to show himself too solicitous 
of gain by inviting people to patronize his house. He there- 
fore did not hurry to the door, and, the lash being soon ap- 
plied, the travelers plunged into the Notch, still singing and 
laughing, though their music and mirth came back drearily 
from the heart of the mountain. 

“ There, mother ! ” cried the boy again ; “ they’d have given 
us a ride to the Flume.” 

Again they laughed at the child’s pertinacious fancy for a 
night ramble. But it happened that a light cloud passed over 
the daughter’s spirit; she looked gravely into the fire and 
drew a breath that was almost a sigh. It forced its way, in 
spite of a little struggle to repress it. Then, starting and 
blushing, she looked quickly around the circle, as if they 
had caught a glimpse into her bosom. The stranger asked 
what she had been thinking of. 

“ Nothing,” answered she, with a downcast smile ; “ only 
I felt lonesome just then.” 

“ Oh, I have always had a gift of feeling what is in other 
people’s hearts,” said he, half seriously. “ Shall I tell the 
secrets of yours? For I know what to think when a young 
girl shivers by a warm hearth and complains of lonesome- 
ness at her mother’s side. Shall I put these feelings into 
words ? ” 

u They would not be a girl’s feelings any longer if they 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 


373 


could be put into words,” replied the mountain nymph, laugh* 
ing, but avoiding his eye. 

All this was said apart. Perhaps a germ of love was spring- 
ing in their hearts so pure that it might blossom in Paradise, 
since it could not be matured on earth ; for women worship 
such gentle dignity as his, and the proud, contemplative, yet 
kindly, soul is oftenest captivated by simplicity like hers. 
But while they spoke softly, and he was watching the happy 
sadness, the lightsome shadows, the shy yearnings of a 
maiden’s nature, the wind through the Notch took a deeper 
and drearier sound. It seemed, as the fanciful stranger 
-aid, like the choral strain of the spirits of the blast who 
in old Indian times had their dwelling among these moun- 
tains, and made their heights and recesses a sacred region. 
There was a wail along the road as if a funeral were pass- 

••• J 

ing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine- 
branches on their fire till the dry leaves crackled and the 
flame arose, discovering once again a scdne of peace and 
humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly 
and caressed them all. There were the little faces of the 
children peeping from their bed apart, and here the father’s 
frame of strength, the mother’s subdued and careful mien, 
the high-browed youth, the budding girl, and the good old 
grandam still knitting in the warmest place. 

The aged woman looked up from her task, and with 
fingers ever busy was the next to speak. 

“ Old folks have their notions,” said she, “ as well as young 
ones. You’ve been wishing and planning and letting your 
heads run on one thing and another till you’ve set my mind 
a wandering too. Now, what should an old woman wish for 
when she can go but a step or two before she comes to her 


374 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


grave? Children, it will haunt me night and day till I tell 
you.” 

“ What is it, mother ? ” cried the husband and wife, at once. 

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew 
the circle closer round the fire, informed them that she had 
provided her grave-clothes some years before — a nice linen 
shroud, a cap with a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer 
sort than she had worn since her wedding day. But this 
evening an old superstition had strangely recurred to her. 
It used to be said in her younger days that if anything were 
amiss with a corpse if only the ruff were not smooth or the 
cap did not set right — the corpse, in the coffin and beneath 
the clods, would strive to put up its cold hands and arrange 
it. The bare thought made her nervous. 

“ Don’t talk so, grandmother,” said the girl, shuddering. 

“ Now,” continued the old woman with singular earnest- 
ness, yet Smiling strangely at her own folly, “ I want one of 
you, my children, when your mother is dressed and in the 
coffin, — I want one of you to hold a looking-glass over my 
face. Who knows but I may take a glimpse at myself, and see 
whether all’s right.” 

“ Old and young, we dream of graves and monuments,” 
murmured the stranger youth. “ I wonder how mariners feel 
when the ship is sinking and they, unknown and undistin- 
guished, are to be buried together in the ocean, that wide 
and nameless sepulchre?” 

For a moment the old woman’s ghastly conception so en- 
grossed the minds of her hearers that a sound abroad in 
the night, rising like the roar of a blast, had grown broad, 
deep and terrible before the fated group were conscious of it. 
The house and all within it trembled ; the foundations of the 
earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful sound were the 


THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 


375 


peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged one wild 
glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted, without ut- 
terance or power to move. Then the same shriek burst si- 
multaneously from all their lips: 

“The slide! The slide!” 

The simplest words must intimate, but not portray, the 
unutterable horror of the catastrophe. The victims rushed 
from their cottage, and sought refuge in what they deemed 
a safer spot, where, in contemplation of such an emergency, 
a sort of barrier had been reared. Alas! they had quitted their 
security and fled right into the pathway of destruction. 
Down came the whole side of the mountain in a cataract of 
ruin. Just before it reached the house the stream broke into 
two branches, shivered not a window there, but over- 
whelmed the w r hole vicinity, blocked up the road and anni- 
hilated everything in its dreadful course. Long ere the 
thunder of that great slide had ceased to roar among the 
mountains the mortal agony had been endured and the vic- 
tims were at peace. Their bodies were never found. 

The next morning the light smoke were seen stealing from 
the cottage chimney, up the mountain-side. Within, the 
fire was yet smouldering on the hearth, and the chairs in a 
circle round it, as if the inhabitants had but gone forth to 
view the devastation of the slide, and would shortly return to 
thank Heaven for their miraculous escape. All had left sep- 
arate tokens by which those who had known the family were 
made to shed a tear for each. Who has not heard their 
name? The story has been told far and wide, and will forever 
be a legend of these mountains. Poets have sung their fate. 

There were circumstances which led some to suppose that 
a stranger naa been received into the cottage on this awful 
night, and had shared the catastrophe of all its inmates ; others' 


376 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


denied that there were sufficient grounds for such a conjec- 
ture. Woe for the high-souled youth with his dream of earthly 
immortality ! His name and person utterly unknown, his his- 
tory, his way of life, his plans, a mystery never to be solved, 
his death and his existence equally a do s ubt, — whose was the 
agony of that death moment? 


THE SISTER-YEARS 

Last night, between eleven and twelve o’clock, when the 
Old Year was leaving her final footprints on the borders of 
Time’s empire, she found herself in the possession of a few 
spare moments, and sat down — of all places in the world — 
on the steps of our new city hall. The wintry moonlight 
showed that she looked weary of body and sad of heart, like 
i many another wayfarer of earth. Her garments having been 
exposed to much fpul weather and rough usage, were in very 
ill condition, and, as the hurry of her journey had never 
I before allowed her to take an instant’s rest, her shoes were 
j so worn as to be scarcely worth the mending. But after 
trudging only a little distance farther this poor Old Year 
i was destined to enjoy a long, long sleep. I forgot to men- 
tion that when she seated herself on the steps she deposited 
by her side a very capacious bandbox in which, as is the 
custom among travelers of her sex, she carried a great deal 
of valuable property. Besides this luggage, there was a 
folio book under her arm very much resembling the annual 
volume of a newspaper. Placing this volume across her knees 
and resting her elbows upon it, with her forehead in her 
hands, the weary, bedraggled, world- worn Old Year heaved a 
heavy sigh, and appeared to be taking no very pleasar*t retro- 
spect of her past existence. 

While she thus awaited the midnight knell that was to 
summon her to the innumerable sisterhood of departed years, 

377 


378 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


there came a young maiden treading lightsomely on tip-toe 
along the street from the direction of the railroad depot. She 
was evidently a stranger, and perhaps had come to town by 
the evening train of cars. There was a smiling cheerfulness 
in this fair maiden's face which bespoke her fully confident 
of a kind reception from the multitude of people with whom 
she was soon to form acquaintance. Her dress was rather 
too airy for the season, and was bedizened with fluttering rib- 
bons and other vanities which were likely soon to be rent 
away by the fierce storms or *o fade in the hot sunshine amid 
which she was to pursue her changeful course. But still she 
was a wonderfully pleasant-looking figure, and had so much 
promise and such an indescribable hopefulness in her aspect 
that hardly anybody could meet her without anticipating 
some very desirable thing — the consummation of some long- 
sought good — from her kind offices. A few dismal charac- 
ters there may be here and there about the world who have 
so often been trifled with by young maidens as promising as 
she, that they have now ceased to pin any faith upon the 
skirts of the New Year. But, for my own part, I have great 
faith in her, and, should I live to see fifty more such, still 
from each of those successive sisters I shall reckon upon 
receiving something that will be worth living for. 

The New Year — for this young maiden was no less a per- 
sonage — carried all her goods and chattels in a basket of 
no great size or weight, which hung upon her arm. She 
greeted the disconsolate Old Year with great affection, and 
sat down beside her on the steps of the city hall, waiting for 
the signal to begin her rambles through the world. The 
two were own sisters, being both granddaughters of Time, 
and, though one looked so much older than the other, it was 
rather owing to hardships and trouble than to age, since there 


THE SISTER-YEARS 


379 


was but a twelve-month’s difference between them. 

“ Well, my dear sister,” said the New Year, after the first 
salutations, “you look almost tired to death. What have 
you been about during your sojourn in this part of infinite 
space ?” 

“ Oh, I have it all recorded here in my book of chronicles,” 
answered the Old Year, in a heavy tone. “ There is nothing 
that would amuse you, and you will soon get sufficient knowl- 
edge of such matters from your own personal experience 
It is but tiresome reading.” 

Nevertheless, she turned over the leaves of the folio an<* 
glanced at them by the light of the moon, feeling an irre- 
sistible spell of interest in her own biography, although its 
incidents were remembered without pleasure. The volume, 
though she termed it her book of chronicles, seemed to be 
neither more nor less than the Salem Gazette for 1838; in the 
accuracy of which journal this sagacious Old Year had so 
much confidence that she deemed it needless to record her 
history with her own pen. 

“ What have you been doing in the political way ? ” asked 
the New Year. 

“ Why, my course here in the United States,” said the Old 
Year — “though perhaps I ought to blush at the confession — 
my political course I must acknowledge, has been rather 
vacillatory, sometimes inclining toward the Whigs, then caus- 
ing the administration party to shout for triumph, and now 
again uplifting what seemed the almost prostrate banner of 
the opposition ; so that historians will hardly know what to 
make of me in this respect. But the Loco-Focos — ” 

“ I do not like these party nicknames,” interrupted her sis- 
ter, who seemed remarkably touchy about some points. “ Per- 


380 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


haps we shall part in better humor if we avoid any political 
discussion.” 

“With all my heart,” replied the Old Year, who had already 
been tormented half to death with squabbles of this kind. “ I 
care not if the name of Whig or Tory, with their interminable 
brawls about banks and the sub-treasury, abolition, Texas, the 
Florida war, and a million of other topics which you will 
learn soon enough for your own comfort, — I care not, I say, 
if no whisper of these matters ever reaches my ears again. 
Yet they have occupied so large a share of my attention that 
I scarcely know what else to tell you. There has, indeed, 
been a curious sort of war on the Canada border, where 
blood has streamed in the names of liberty and patriotism; 
but it must remain for some future, perhaps far-distant, year 
to tell whether or no those holy names have been rightfully 
invoked. Nothing so much depresses me in my view of 
mortal affairs as to see high energies wasted and human life 
and happiness thrown away for ends that appear oftentimes 
unwise, and still oftener remain .unaccomplished. But the 
wisest people and the best keep a steadfast faith that the 
progress of mankind is onward and upward, and that the toil 
and anguish of the path serve to wear away the imperfec- 
tions of the immortal pilgrim, and will be felt no more when 
they have done their office.” 

“Perhaps,” cried the hopeful New Year — “perhaps I shall 
see that happy day.” 

“ I doubt whether it be so close at hand,” answered the Old 
Year, gravely smiling. “You will soon grow weary of look- 
ing for that blessed consummation, and will turn for amuse- 
ment — as has frequently been my own practice — to the af- 
fairs of some sober little city like this of Salem. Here we 
sit on the steps of the new city hall which has been completed 


THE SISTER-YEARS 


381 


under my administration, and it would make you laugh to 
see how the game of politics of which the Capitol at Washing- 
ton is the great chessboard is here played in miniature. 
Burning Ambition finds its fuel here; here patriotism speaks 
boldly in the people’s behalf and virtuous economy demands 
retrenchment in the emoluments of a lamplighter, here the 
aldermen range their senatorial dignity around the mayor’s 
chair of state and the common council feel that they have 
liberty in charge. In short, human weakness and strength, 
passion and policy, man’s tendencies, his aims and modes of 
pursuing them, his individual character and his character in 
the mass, may be studied almost as well here as on the the- 
atre of nations, and with this great advantage — that, be the 
lesson ever so disastrous, its Liliputian scope still makes the 
beholder smile.” 

“ Have you done much for the improvement of the city ?” 
asked the New Year. “Judging from what little I have seen, 
it appears to be ancient and timeworn.” 

“I have opened the railroad,” said the elder Year, “and 
half a dozen times a day you will hear the bell which once 
summoned the monks of a Spanish convent to their devo- 
tions announcing the arrival or departure of the cars. Old 
Salem now wears a much livelier expression than when I 
first beheld her. Strangers rumble down from Boston by 
hundreds at a time. New faces throng in Essex Street. Rail- 
road hacks and omnibuses rattle over the pavements. There 
is a perceptible increase of oyster shops and other establish- 
ments for the accommodation of a transitory diurnal multi- 
tude. But a more important change awaits the venerable 
town. An immense accumulation of musty prejudices will be 
carried off by the free circulation of society. A peculiarity 
of character of which the inhabitants themselves are hardly 


382 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sensible will be rubbed down and worn away by the attrition 
of foreign substances. Much of the result will be good ; 
there will likewise be a few things not so good. Whether for 
better or worse, there will be a probable diminution of the 
moral influence of wealth, and the sway of an aristocratic 
class which from an era far beyond my memory has held firmer 
dominion here than in any other New England town.” 

The Old Year, having talked away nearly all of her little 
remaining breath, now closed her book of chronicles, and 
was about to take her departure, but her sister detained her 
a while longer by inquiring the contents of the huge band- 
box which she was so painfully lugging along with her. 

“ These are merely a few trifles,” replied the Old Year, 
“ which I have picked up in my rambles and am going to 
deposit in the receptacle of things past and forgotten. We 
sisterhood of years never carry anything really valuable out 
of the world with us. Here are patterns of most of the fash- 
ions which I brought into vogue, and which have already lived 
out their allotted term ; you will supply their place with others 
equally ephemeral. Here, put up in little china pots, like 
rouge, is a considerable lot of beautiful women’s bloom which 
the disconsolate fair ones owe me a bitter grudge for stealing. 
I have likewise a quantity of men’s dark hair, instead of which 
I have left gray locks or none at all. The tears of widows 
and other afflicted mortals who have received comfort during 
the last twelve months are preserved in some dozens of es- 
sence bottles well corked and sealed. I have several bun- 
dles of love letters, eloquently breathing an eternity of burn- 
ing passion which grew cold and perished almost before the 
ink was dry. Moreover, here is an assortment of many 
thousand broken promises and other broken ware, all very 
light and packed into little space. The heaviest articles in 


THE SISTER-YEARS 


333 


my possession are a large parcel of disappointed hopes which 
a little while ago were buoyant enough to have inflated Mr. 
Lauriat’s balloon.” 

“ I have a fine lot of hopes here in my basket,” remarked 
the New Year. “They are a sweet-smelling flower — a 
species of rose.” 

“ They soon lose their perfume,” replied the sombre Old 
Year. “ What else have you brought to insure a welcome 
from the discontented race of mortals?” 

“ Why, to say the truth, little or nothing else,” said her 
sister, with a smile, “ save a few new Annuals and almanacs, 
and some New Year’s gifts for the children. But I heartily 
wish well to poor mortals, and mean to do all I can for their 
improvement and happiness.” 

“It is a good resolution,” rejoined the Old Year. “And, 
by the way, I have a plentiful assortment of good resolutions 
which have now grown so stale and musty that I am ashamed 
to carry them any farther. Only for fear that the city au- 
thorities would send Constable Mansfield with a warrant after 
me, I should toss them into the street at once. Many other 
matters go to make up the contents of my bandbox, but the 
whole lot would not fetch a single bid even at an auction of 
worn-out furniture, and as they are worth nothing either to 
you or anybody else, I need not trouble you with a longer 
catalogue.” 

“And must I also pick up such worthless luggage in my 
travels?” asked the New Year. 

“ Most certainly, and well if you have no heavier load to 
bear,” replied the other. “And now, my dear sister, I must 
bid you farewell, earnestly advising and exhorting you to 
expect no gratitude nor good-will from this peevish, unreason- 
able, inconsiderate, ill-intending and worse-behaving world. 


384 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


However warmly its inhabitants may seem to welcome you, 
yet, do what you may and lavish on them what means of 
happiness you please, they will still be complaining, still 
craving what it is not in your power to give, still looking for- 
ward to some other year for the accomplishment of projects 
which ought never to have been formed, and which, if suc- 
cessful, would only provide new occasions of discontent If 
these ridiculous people ever see anything tolerable in you, it 
will be after you are gone forever.” 

“ But I,” cried the fresh-hearted New Year — “ I shall try to 
leave men wiser than I find them. I will offer them freely 
whatever good gifts Providence permits me to distribute, and 
will tell them to be thankful for what they have and humbly 
hopeful for more ; and surely, if they are not absolute fools, 
they will condescend to be happy, and will allow me to be a 
happy year. For my happiness must depend on them.” 

“Alas for you, then, my poor sister!” said the Old Year, 
sighing, as she uplifted her burden. “ We grandchildren of 
Time are born to trouble. Happiness, they say, dwells in 
the mansions of eternity, but we can only lead mortals thither 
step by step with reluctant murmurings, and ourselves must 
perish on the threshold. But hark! my task is done.” 

The clock in the tall steeple of Dr. Emerson’s church struck 
twelve ; there was a response from Dr. Flint’s, in the oppo- 
site quarter of the city; and while the strokes were yet 
dropping into the air the Old Year either flitted or faded 
away, and not the wisdom and might of angels, to say nothing 
of the remorseful yearnings of the millions who had used her 
ill, could have prevailed with that departed year to return one 
step. But she, in the company of Time and all her kindred, 
must hereafter hold a reckoning with mankind. So shall it be, 
likewise, with the maidenly New Year, who, as the clock 


THE SISTER-YEARS 


385 


ceased to strike, arose from the steps of the city hall and set 
out rather timorously on her earthly course. 

“A happy New Year ! ” cried a watchman, eyeing her figure 
very questionably, but without the least suspicion that he 
was addressing the New Year in person. 

“Thank you kindly,” said the New Year; and she gave the 
watchman one of the roses of hope from her basket. “ May 
this flower keep a sweet smell long after I have bidden you 
good-bye ! ” 

Then she stepped on more briskly through the silent streets, 
and such as were awake at the moment heard her footfall 
and said, “The New Year is come!” Wherever there was 
a knot of midnight roisterers they quaffed her health. She 
sighed, however, to perceive that the air was tainted — as the 
atmosphere of this world must continually be — with the 
dying breaths of mortals who had lingered just long enough 
for her to bury them. But there were millions left alive to 
rejoice at her coming, and so she pursued her way with con- 
fidence, strewing emblematic flowers on the doorstep of al- 
most every dwelling, which some persons will gather up and 
wear in their bosoms, and others will trample under foot. The 
carrier-boy can only say further that early this morning she 
filled his basket with New Year's addresses, assuring him that 
the whole city, with our new mayor and the aldermen and 
common council at its head, would make a general rush to 
Secure copies. Kind patrons, will not you redeem the pledge 
of the New Year? 


SNOWFLAKES 


There is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning, and 
through the partially-frosted window-panes I love to watch 
the gradual beginning of the storm. A few feathery flakes 
are scattered widely through the air and hover downward 
with uncertain flight, now almost alighting on the earth, now 
whirled again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. 
These are not the big flakes heavy with moisture which melt 
as they touch the ground and are portentous of a soaking rain. 
It is to be in good earnest a wintry storm. The twa or three 
people visible on the sidewalks have ah aspect of endurance, 
a blue-nosed, frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in 
anticipation of a comfortless and blustering day. By night- 
fall — or, at least, before the sun sheds another glimmering 
smile upon us — the street and our little garden will be 
heaped with mountain snowdrifts. The soil, already frozen 
for weeks past, is prepared to sustain whatever burden may 
be laid upon it, and to a Northern eye the landscape will 
lose its melancholy bleakness and acquire a beauty of its own 
when Mother Earth, like her children, shall have put on the 
fleecy garb of her winter’s wear. The cloud-spirits are slowly 
weaving her white mantle. As yet, indeed, there is barely 
a rime like hoar-frost over the brown surface of the street; 
the withered green of the grass-plat is still discernible, and 
the slated roofs of the houses do but begin to look gray in- 
stead of black. All the snow that has yet fallen within the 
circumference of my view, were it heaped up together, would 

386 


SNOWFLAKES 


387 


hardly equal the hillock of a grave. Thus gradually by silent 
and stealthy influences are great changes wrought. These 
little snow particles which the storm-spirit flings by handfuls 
through the air will bury the great Earth under their accumu- 
lated mass, nor permit her to behold her sister Sky again for 
dreary months. We likewise shall lose sight of our mother’s 

V i 

familiar visage, and must content ourselves with looking: 
heavenward the oftener. 

Now, leaving the Storm to do his appointed office, let us sit 
down, pen in hand, by our fireside. Gloomy as it may seem, 
there is an influence productive of cheerfulness and favorable 
to 'imaginative thought in the atmosphere of a snowy day. 
The native of a Southern clime may woo the Muse beneath 
the heavy shade of summer foliage reclining on banks of 
turf, while the sound of singing birds and warbling rivulets 
chimes in with the music of his soul. In our brief summer I 
do not think, but only exist in the vague enjoyment of a 
cfream. My hour of inspiration — if that hour ever comes 
— is when the green log hisses upon the hearth, and the 
bright flame, brighter for the gloom of the chamber, rustles 
high up the chimney, and the coals drop tinkling down 
among the growing heaps of ashes. When the casement rat- 
tles in the gust and the snowflakes or the sleety raindrops pelt 
hard against the window-panes ; then I spread out my sheet 
of paper with a certainty that thoughts and fancies wilt 
gleam forth upon it like stars at twilight or like violets in 
May, perhaps to fade as soon. However transitory their glow, 
they at least shine amid the darksome shadow which the 
clouds of the outward sky fling through the room. Blessed, 
therefore, and reverently welcomed by me, her true-born son, 
be New England’s winter, which makes us one and all the 
nurslings of the storm and sings a familiar lullaby even in 


388 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


the wildest shriek of the December blast. Now look we forth 
again and see how much of his task the storm-spirit has done. 

Slow and sure! He has the day — perchance the week — 
before him, and may take his own time to accomplish Na- 
ture’s burial in snow. A smooth mantle is scarcely yet 
thrown over the withered grass-plat, and the dry stalks of 
annuals still thrust themselves through the white surface in 
all parts of the garden. The leafless rose-bushes stand shiv- 
ering in a shallow snowdrift, looking, poor things ! as discon- 
solate as if they possessed a human consciousness of the dreary 
scene. This is a sad time for the shrubs that do not perish 
with the summer. They neither live nor die; what they re- 
tain of life seems but the chilling sense of death. Very sad 
are the flower-shrubs in midwinter. The roofs of the houses 
are now all white, save where the eddying wind has kept them 
bare at the bleak corners. To discern the real intensity of the 
storm, we must fix upon some distant object — as yonder 
spire — and observe how the riotous gust fights with the de- 
scending snow throughout the intervening space. Sometimes 
the entire prospect is obscured ; then, again, we have a dis- 
tinct but transient glimpse of the tall steeple, like a giant’s 
ghost ; and now the dense wreaths sweep between, as if 
-demons were flinging snowdrifts at each other in mid-air. 
Look next into the street, where we have an amusing parallel 
to the combat of those fancied demons in the upper regions. 
It is a snow-battle of schoolboys. What a pretty satire on 
war and military glory might be written in the form of a 
child’s story by describing the snowball fights of two rival 
schools, the alternate defeats and victories of each, and the 
final triumph of one party, or perhaps of neither! What 
pitched battles worthy to be chanted in Homeric strains ! 
What storming of fortresses built all of massive snow-blocks ! 


SNOWFLAKES 


389 


What feats of individual prowess and embodied onsets of 
martial enthusiasm! And when some well-contested and de- 
cisive victory had put a period to the war, both armies should 
unite to build a lofty monument of snow upon the battlefield 
and crown it with the victor’s statue hewn of the same frozen, 
marble. In a few days or weeks thereafter the passer-by would 
observe a shapeless mound upon the level common, and, un- 
mindful of the famous victory, would ask, “ How came it 
there ? Who reared it ? And what means it ? ” The shat- 
tered pedestal of many a battle monument has provoked these 
questions when none could answer. 

Turn we again to the fireside and sit musing there, lending 
our ears to the wind till perhaps it shall seem like an articu- 
late voice and dictate wild and airy matter for the pen. 
Would it might inspire me to sketch out the personification 
of a New England winter ! And that idea, if I can seize the 
snow-wreathed figures that flit before my fancy, shall be the 
theme of the next page. 

How does Winter herald his approach? By the shrieking 
blast of latter autumn which is Nature’s cry of lamentation 
as the destroyer rushes among the shivering groves where 
she has lingered and scatters the sear leaves upon the tempest. 
When that cry is heard, the people wrap themselves in cloaks 
and shake their heads disconsolately, saying, “ Winter is at 
hand.” Then the axe of the woodcutter echoes sharp and 
diligently in the forest; then the coal merchants rejoice be- 
cause each shriek of Nature in her agony adds something to 
the price of coal per ton ; then the peat smoke spreads its 
aromatic fragrance through the atmosphere. A few days 
more, and at eventide the children look out of the window 
and dimly perceive the flaunting of a snowy mantle in the 
air. It is stern Winter’s vesture. They crowd around the 


390 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


hearth and cling to their mother’s gown or press between 
their father's knees, affrighted by the hollow roaring voice 
that bellows adown the- wide flue of the chimney. 

It is the voice of Winter; and when parents and children 
hear it, they shudder and exclaim, “Winter is come. Cold 
Winter has begun his reign already.” Now throughout New 
England each hearth becomes an altar sending up the smoke 
of a continued sacrifice to the immitigable deity who tyran- 
nizes over forest, country-side and town. Wrapped in his 
white mantle, his staff a huge icicle, his beard and hair a wind- 
tossed snowdrift, he travels over the land in the midst of the 
northern blast, and woe to the homeless wanderer whom he 
finds upon his path ! There he lies stark and stiff, a human 
shape of ice, on the spot where Winter overtook him. On 
strides the tyrant over the rushing rivers and broad lakes, 
which turn to rock beneath his footsteps. His dreary em- 
pire is established ; all around stretches the desolation of the 
pole. Yet not ungrateful be his New England children (for 
Winter is our sire, though a stern and rough one) — not 
ungrateful even for the severities which have nourished our 
unyielding strength of character. And let us thank him, too, 
for the sleigh-rides cheered by the music of merry bells; for 
the crackling and rustling hearth when the ruddy firelight 
gleams on hardy manhood and the blooming cheek of woman ; 
for all the home enjoyments and the kindred virtues which 
flourish in a frozen soil. Not that we grieve when, after some 
seven months of storm and bitter frost, Spring in the guise 
of a flower-crowned virgin, is seen driving away the hoary 
despot, pelting him with violets by the handful, and strew- 
ing green grass on the path behind him. Often ere he will 
give up his empire old Winter rushes fiercely back and hurls 
a snowdrift at the shrinking form of Spring, yet step by step 


SNOWFLAKES 


391 


he is compelled to retreat northward, and spends the summer 
months within the Arctic circle. 

Such fantasies, intermixed among graver toils of mind, 
have made the winter’s day pass pleasantly. Meanwhile, the 
storm has raged without abatement, and now, as the brief 
afternoon declines, is tossing denser volumes to and fro about 
the atmosphere. On the window sill there is a layer of snow 
reaching halfway up the' lowest pane of glass. The garden is 
one unbroken bed. Along the street are two or three spots 
of uncovered earth where the gust has whirled away the snow, 
heaping it elsewhere to the fence-tops or piling huge banks 
against the doors of houses. A solitary passenger is seen, 
now striding mid-leg deep across a drift, now scudding over 
the bare ground, while his cloak is swollen with the wind. 
And now the jingling of bells — a sluggish sound responsive 
to the horse’s toilsome progress through the unbroken drifts 
— announces the passage of a sleigh with a boy clinging 
behind and ducking his head to escape detection by the 
driver. Next comes a sledge laden with wood for some 
unthrifty housekeeper whom winter has surprised at a cold 
hearth. But what dismal equipage now struggles along the 
uneven street? A sable hearse bestrewn with snow is bear- 
ing a dead man through the storm to his frozen bed. Oh, 
how dreary is a burial in winter, when the bosom of Mother 
Earth has no warmth for her poor child ! 

Evening — the early eve of December — begins to spread 
its deepening veil over the comfortless scene. The firelight 
gradually brightens and throws my flickering shadow upon 
the walls and ceiling of the chamber, but still the storm rages 
and rattles against the windows. Alas ! I shiver and think 
it time to be disconsolate, but, taking a farewell glance at 
dead Nature in her shroud, I perceive a flock of snow-birds 


392 TWICE-TOLD TALES 

skimming lightsomely through the tempest and flitting from 
drift to drift as sportively as swallows in the delightful 
prime of summer. Whence come they? Where do they build 
their nests and seek their food? Why, having airy wings, do 
they not follow summer around the earth, instead of making 
themselves the playmates of the storm and fluttering on the 
dreary verge of the winter’s eve? I know not whence they 
come, nor why; yet my spirit has been cheered by that wan- 
dering flock of snow-birds. 




i 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


Rambling on foot in the spring of my life and the summer 
of the year, I came one afternoon to a point which gave me 
the choice of three directions. Straight before me the main 
road extended its dusty length to Boston ; on the left a 
branch went toward the sea, and would have lengthened my 
journey a trifle of twenty or thirty miles, while by the right- 
hand path I might have gone over hills and lakes to Canada, 
visiting in my way the celebrated town of Stamford. On a 
level spot of grass at the foot of the guide-post appeared an 
object which, though locomotive on a different principle, re- 
minded me of Gulliver’s portable mansion among the Brob- 
dingnags. It was a huge covered wagon — or, more properly, 
a small house on wheels — with a door on one side and a 
window shaded by green blinds on the other. Two horses 
munching provender out of the baskets which muzzled them 
were fastened near the vehicle. A delectable sound of music 
j proceeded from the interior, and I immediately conjectured 
that this was some itinerant show halting at the confluence of 
the roads to intercept such idle travelers as myself. A shower 
had long been climbing up the western sky, and now hung so 
blackly over my onward path that it was a point of wisdom 
to seek shelter here. 

"Halloo! Who stands guard here? Is the doorkeeper 
asleep ? ” cried I, approaching a ladder of two or three steps 
which was let down from the wagon. 


393 


394 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


The music ceased at my summons, and there appeared at 
the door, not the sort of figure that I had mentally assigned 
to the wandering showman, but a most respectable old per- 
sonage whom I was sorry to have addressed in so free a 
style. He wore a snuff-colored coat and small-clothes, with 
white-top boots, and exhibited the mild dignity of aspect and 
manner which may often be noticed in aged schoolmasters, 
and sometimes in deacons, selectmen or other potentates of 
that kind. A small piece of silver was my passport within 
his premises, where I found only one other person, hereafter 
to be described. 

“ This is a dull day for business,” said the old gentleman 
as he ushered me in ; “ but I merely tarry here to refresh the 
cattle, being bound for the camp-meeting at Stamford.” 

Perhaps the movable scene of this narrative is still pere- 
grinating New England, and may enable the reader to test 
the accuracy of my description. The spectacle — for I will 
not use the unworthy term of “ puppet-show ’’—consisted of 
a multitude of little people assembled on a miniature stage. 
Among them were artisans of every kind in the attitudes of 
their toil, and a group of fair ladies and gay gentlemen stand- 
ing ready for the dance; a company of foot-soldiers formed 
a line across the stage, looking stern, grim and terrible enough 
to make it a pleasant consideration that they were but three 
inches high ; and conspicuous above the whole was seen a 
Merry Andrew in the pointed cap and motley coat of his pro- 
fession. All the inhabitants of this mimic world were motion- 
less, like the figures in a picture, or like that people who one 
moment were alive in the midst of their business and delights 
and the next were transformed to statues, preserving an eter- 
nal semblance of labor that was ended and pleasure that 
could be felt no more Anon, however, the old gentleman 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


395 


turned the handle of a barrel-organ, the first note of which 
produced a most enlivening effect upon the figures and awoke 
them all to their proper occupations and amusements. By 
the self-same impulse the tailor plied his needle, the black- 
smith’s hammer descended upon the anvil, and the' dancers 
whirled away on feathery tiptoes ; the company of soldiers 
broke into platoons, retreated from the stage, and were suc- 
ceeded by a troop of horse, who came prancing onward with 
such a sound of trumpets and trampling of hoofs as might 
have startled Don Quixote himself ; while an old toper of in- 
veterate ill-habits uplifted his black bottle and took off a hearty 
swig. Meantime the Merry Andrew began to caper and turn 
somersets, shaking his sides, nodding his head, and winking 
his eyes in as lifelike a manner as if he were ridiculing the 
nonsense of all human affairs and making fun of the whole 
multitude beneath him. At length the old magician (for I 
compared the showman to Prospero entertaining his guests 
with a masque of shadows) paused that I might give utterance 
to my wonder. 

“What an admirable piece of work is this!” exclaimed I, 
lifting up my hands in astonishment. 

“ Indeed, I liked the spectacle, and was tickled with the 
old man’s gravity as he presided at it, for I had none of that 
foolish wisdom which reproves every occupation that is not 
useful in this world of vanities. If there be a faculty which I 
possess more perfectly than most men, it is that of throw- 
ing myself mentally into situations foreign to my own 
and detecting with a cheerful eye the desirable circumstances 
of each. I could have envied the life of this gray-heaaed 
showman, spent as it had been in a course of safe and pleasura- 
ble adventure in driving his huge vehicle sometimes through 
the sands of Cape Cod and sometimes over the rough forest 


396 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


roads of the north and east, and halting now on the green 
before a village meeting-house and now in a paved square of 
the metropolis. How often must his heart have been glad- 
dened by the delight of children as they viewed these ani- 
mated figures, or his pride indulged by haranguing learnedly 
to grown men on the mechanical powers which produced 
such wonderful effects, or his gallantry brought into play — * 
for this is an attribute which such grave men do not lack — 
by the visits of pretty maidens! And then with how fresh 
a feeling must he return at intervals to his own peculiar home ! 
“ I would I were assured of as happy a life as his,” thought I. 

Though the showman's wagon might have accommodated 
fifteen or twenty spectators, it now contained only himself 
and me and a third person, at whom I threw a glance on 
entering. He was a neat and trim young man of two or 
three and twenty ; his drab hat and green frock-coat with vel- 
vet collar were smart, though no longer new, while a pair 
of green spectacles that seemed needless to his brisk little 
eyes gave him something of a scholar-like and literary air. 
After allowing me a sufficient time to inspect the puppets, he 
advanced with a bow and drew my attention to some books 
in a corner of the wagon. These he forthwith began to 
extol with an amazing volubility of well-sounding words and 
an ingenuity of praise that won him my heart as being my- 
self one of the most merciful of critics. Indeed, his stock re- 
quired some considerable powers of commendation in the 
salesman. These 'were several ancient friends of mine — the 
novels of those happy days when my affections wavered be- 
tween the Scottish Chiefs and Thomas Thumb — besides a 
few of later date whose merits had not been acknowledged by 
the public. I was glad to find that dear little venerable vol- 
ume, the New England Primer , looking as antique as ever. 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


397 


though in its thousandth new edition ; a bundle of superannu- 
ated gilt picture-books made such a child of me that, partly 
for the glittering covers and partly for the fairy-tales within, 
I bought the whole, and an assortment of ballads and popular 
theatrical songs drew largely on my purse. To balance these 
expenditures, I meddled neither with sermons nor science nor 
morality, though volumes of each were there, nor with a 
Life of Franklin in the coarsest of paper, but so showily 
bound that it was emblematical of the doctor himself in the 
court dress which he refused to wear at Paris, nor with Web- 
ster’s spelling-book, nor some of Byron’s minor poems, nor 
half a dozen little Testaments at twenty-five cents each. Thus 
far the collection might have been swept from some great 
bookstore or picked up at an evening auction room, but there 
was one small blue-covered pamphlet which the pedler handed 
me with so peculiar an air that I purchased it immediately 
at his own price ; and then for the first time the thought 
struck me that I had spoken face to face with the veritable 
author of a printed book. 

The literary man now evinced a great kindness for me, and 
I ventured to inquire which way he was traveling. 

“ Oh,” said he, “ I keep company with this old gentleman 
here, and we are moving now toward the camp-meeting at 
Stamford.” 

He then explained to me that for the present season he 
had rented a corner of the wagon as a bookstore, which, as he 
wittily observed, was a true circulating library, since there 
were few parts of the country where it had not gone its 
rounds. I approved of the plan exceedingly, and began to 
sum up within my mind the many uncommon felicities in the 
life of a book-pedler, especially when his character resem- 
bled that of the individual before me. At a high rate was to 


398 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


be reckoned the daily and hourly enjoyment of such inter- 
views as the present, in which he seized upon the admira- 
tion of a passing stranger and made him aware that a man 
of literary taste, and even of literary achievement, was travel- 
ing the country in a showman’s wagon. A more valuable yet 
not infrequent triumph might be won in his conversations with 
some elderly clergyman long vegetating in a rocky, woody, 
watery back settlement of New England, who as he recruited 
his library from the pedler’s stock of sermons, would exhort 
him to seek a college education and become the first scholar 
in his class. Sweeter and prouder yet would be his sensa- 
tions, when, talking poetry while he sold spelling-books, he 
should charm the mind, and haply touch the heart, of a fan 
country schoolmistress, herself an unhonored poetess, a wearei 
of blue stockings which none but himself took pains to look 
ati But the scene of his completest glory would be when the 
wagon had halted for the night and his stock of books was 
transferred to some crowded bar-room, Then would he rec- 
ommend to the multifarious company, whether traveler from 
the city, or teamster from the hills, or neighboring squire, or 
the landlord himself, or his loutish hostler, works suited to 
each particular taste and capacity, proving, all the while, by 
acute criticism and profound remark, that the lore in his 
books was even exceeded by that in his brain. Thus happily 
would he traverse the land, sometimes a herald before the 
march of Mind, sometimes walking arm in arm with awful 
Literature, and reaping everywhere a harvest of real and sen- 
sible popularity which the secluded bookworms by whose toil 
he lived could never hope for. 

“If ever I meddle with literature,” thought I, fixing myself 
in adamantine resolution, “ it shall be as a traveling booksel- 
ler.” 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


399 


Though it was still mid-afternoon the air had now grown 
dark about us, and a few drops of rain came down upon the 
roof of our vehicle, pattering like the feet of birds that had 
flown thither to rest. A sound of pleasant voices made us 
listen, and there soon appeared halfway up the ladder the 
pretty person of a young damsel whose rosy face was so 
cheerful that even amid the gloomy light it seemed as if the 
sunbeams were peeping under her bonnet. We next saw the 
dark and handsome features of a young man who, with easier 
gallantry than might have been expected in the heart of 
Yankee-land, was assisting her into the wagon. It became 
immediately evident to us, when the two strangers stood within 
the door, that they were of a profession kindred to those of 
my companions, and I was delighted with the more than hos- 
pitable — the even paternal — kindness of the old showman’s 
manner as he welcomed them, while the man of literature 
hastened to lead the merry-eyed girl to a seat on the long 
bench. 

“You are housed but just in time, my young friends,” said 
the master of the wagon ; “ the sky would have been down 
upon you within five minutes.” 

The young man’s reply marked him as a foreigner — not by 
any variation from the idiom and accent of good English, 
but because he spoke with more caution and accuracy than 
if perfectly familiar with the language. 

“ We knew that a shower was hanging over us,” said he, 
“ and consulted whether it were best to enter the house on 
the top of yonder hill, but, seeing your wagon in the road — ” 

“ We agreed to come hither,” interrupted the girl, with a 
smile, “ because we should be more at home in a wandering 
house like this.’' 

I, meanwhile, with many a wild and undetermined fantasy, 


400 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


was narrowly inspecting these two doves that had flown into 
our ark. The young man, tall, agile and athletic, wore a 
mass of black shining curls clustering round a dark and 
vivacious countenance which, if it had not greater expression, 
was at least more active and attracted readier notice, than the 
quiet faces of our countrymen. At his first appearance he 
had been laden with a neat mahogany box of about two feet 
square, but very light in proportion to its size, which he had 
immediately unstrapped from his shoulders and deposited on 
the floor of the wagon. 

The girl had nearly as fair a complexion as our own 
beauties, and a brighter one than most of them; the lightness 
of her figure, which seemed calculated to traverse the whole 
world without weariness, suited well with the glowing cheer- 
fulness of her face, and her gay attire, combining the rainbow 
hues of crimson, green and a deep orange, was as proper to 
her lightsome aspect as if she had been born in it. This gay 
stranger was appropriately burdened with that mirth-inspir- 
ing instrument the fiddle, which her companion took from her 
hands, and shortly began the process of tuning. Neither of 
us, the preyious company of the wagon, needed to inquire 
their trade, for this could be no mystery to frequenters of 
brigade musters, ordinations, cattle shows, commencements, 
and other festal meetings in our sober land; and there is a 
dear friend of mine who will smile when this page recalls 
to his memory a chivalrous deed performed by us in rescuing 
the show-box of such a couple from a mob of great double- 
fisted countrymen. 

“Come,” said I to the damsel of gay attire ; “shall we visit 
all the wonders of the world together?” 

She understood the metaphor at once, though, indeed, it 
would not much have troubled me if she had assented to the 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


401 


literal meaning of my words. The mahogany box was placed 
in a proper position, and I peeped in through its small round 
magnifying window while the girl sat by my side and gave 
short descriptive sketches as one after another the pictures 
were unfolded to my view. We visited together — at least, our 
imaginations did — full many a famous city in the streets of 
which I had long yearned to tread. Once, I remember, we were 
in the harbor of Barcelona, gazing townward; next, she bore 
me through the air to Sicily and bade me look up at blazing 
JEtns . ; then we took wing to Venice and sat in a gondola 
beneath the arch of the Rialto, and anon she set me down 
among the thronged spectators at the coronation of Napoleon. 
But there was one scene — its locality she could not tell 
— which charmed my attention longer than all those gorgeous 
palaces and churches, because the fancy haunted me that I 
myself the preceding summer had beheld just such a humble 
meeting-house, in just such a pine-surrounded nook, among 
our own green mountains. All these pictures were tolerably 
executed, though far inferior to the girl’s touches of de- 
scription ; nor was it easy to comprehend how in so few sen- 
tences, and these, as I supposed, in a language foreign to 
her, she contrived to present an airy copy of each varied scene. 

When we had traveled through the vast extent of the ma- 
hogany box, I looked into my guide’s face. 

“ Where are you going, my pretty maid ? ” inquired I, in 
the words of an old song. 

“Ah!” said the gay damsel; “you might as well ask where 
the summer wind is going. We are wanderers here and there 
and everywhere. Wherever there is mirth our merry hearts 
are drawn to it. To-day, indeed, the people have told us of 
a great frolic and festival in these parts; so perhaps we may 
be needed at what you call the camp-meeting at Stamford.” 


402 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Then, in my happy youth, and while her pleasant voice yet 
sounded in my ears, I sighed; for none but myself, I thought, 
should have been her companion in a life which seemed to 
realize my own wild fancies, cherished all through visionary 
boyhood to that hour. To these two strangers the world 
was in its Golden Age — not that, indeed, it was less dark and 
sad than ever, but because its weariness and sorrow had no 
community with their ethereal nature. Wherever they might 
appear in their pilgrimage of bliss, Youth would echo back 
their gladness, care-stricken Maturity would rest a moment 
from its toil, and Age, tottering among the graves, would 
smile in withered joy for their sakes. The lonely cot, the 
narrow and gloomy street, the sombre shade, would catch a 
passing gleam like that now shining on ourselves as these 
bright spirits wandered by. Blessed pair, whose happy home 
was throughout all the earth ! I looked at my shoulders, and 
thought them broad enough to sustain those pictured towns 
and mountains; mine, too, was an elastic foot as tireless as 
the wing of the bird of Paradise ; mine was then an un- 
troubled heart that would have gone singing on its delightful 
way. 

“ Oh, maiden,” said I aloud, “ why did you not come hither 
alone ? ” 

While the merry girl and myself were busy with the show- 
box the unceasing rain had driven another wayfarer into the 
wagon. He seemed pretty nearly of the old showman’s age, 
but much smaller, leaner and more withered than he, and 
less respectably clad in a patched suit of gray; withal, he had 
a thin, shrewd • countenance and a pair of diminutive gray 
eyes, which peeped rather too keenly out of their puckered 
sockets. This old fellow had been joking with the showman 
in a manner which intimated previous acquaintance but, per- 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


403 


ceiving that the damsel and I had terminated our affairs, he 
drew forth a folded document and presented it to me. As I 
had anticipated, it proved to be a circular, written in a very 
fair and legible hand, and signed by several distinguished gen- 
tlemen whom I had never heard of, stating that the bearer 
had encountered every variety of misfortune and recommend- 
ing him to the notice of all charitable people. Previous dis- 
bursements had left me no more than a five-dollar bill, out of 
which, however, I offered to make the beggar a donation pro- 
vided he would give me change for it. The object of my 
beneficence looked keenly in my face, and- discerned that 1 
had none of that abominable spirit, characteristic though it 
be, of a full-blooded Yankee, which takes pleasure in de- 
tecting every little harmless piece of knavery. 

“ Why, perhaps,” said the ragged old mendicant, “ if the 
bank is in good standing, I can’t say but I may have enough 
about me to change your bill.” 

“It is a bill of the Suffolk bank,” said I, “and better than 
the specie.” 

As the beggar had nothing to object, he now produced a 
small buff leather bag tied up carefully with a shoe-string. 
When this was opened, there appeared a very comfortable 
treasure of silver coins of all sorts and sizes, and I even 
fancied that I saw gleaming among them the golden plumage 
of that rare bird in our currency, the American eagle. In 
this precious heap was my bank note deposited, the rate of 
exchange being considerably against me. 

His wants being thus relieved, the destitute man pulled out 
of his pocket an old pack of greasy cards which had probably 
contributed to fill the buff leather bag in more ways than one. 

“ Come,” said he ; “I spy a rare fortune in you** face, and 
for twenty-five cents more I’ll tell you what it is.” 


404 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


I never refuse to take a glimpse into futurity ; so, after 
shuffling the cards and when the fair damsel had cut them, I 
dealt a portion to the prophetic beggar. Like others of his 
profession, before predicting the shadowy events that were 
moving on to meet me he gave proof of his preternatural sci- 
ence by describing scenes through —hich I had already passed. 

Here let me have credit for a sober fact. When the old 
man had read a page in his book of fate, he bent his keen 
gray eyes on mine and proceeded to relate in all its minute 
particulars what was then the most singular event of my life. 
It was one which I had no purpose to disclose till the general 
unfolding of all secrets, nor would it be a much stranger in- 
stance of inscrutable knowledge or fortunate conjecture if 
the beggar were to meet me in the street to-day and repeat 
word for word the page which I have here written. 

The fortune-teller, after predicting a destiny which time 
seems loth to make good, put up his cards, secreted his treas- 
ure-bag and began to converse with the other occupants of 
the wagon. 

“ Well, old friend,” said the showman, " you have not yet 
told us which way your face is turned this afternoon.” 

“ I am taking a trip northward this warm weather,” replied 
•he conjurer, “across the Connecticut first, and then up 
dirough Vermont, and maybe into Canada before the fall. But 
i must stop and see the breaking up of the camp-meeting at 
Stamford.” 

I began to think that all the vagrants in New England 
were converging to the camp-meeting and had made this 
ivagon their rendezvous by the way. 

The showman now proposed that when the shower was over 
they should pursue the road to Stamford together, it being 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


405 


sometimes the policy of these people to form a sort of league 
and confederacy. 

“ And the young lady too,” observed the gallant bibliopolist, 
bowing to her profoundly, “ and this foreign gentleman, as 
I understand, are on a jaunt of pleasure to the same spot. 
It would add incalculably to my own enjoyment, and I pre- 
sume to that of my colleague and his friend, if they could 
be prevailed upon to join our party.” 

This arrangement met with approbation on all hands, nor 
were any of those concerned more sensible of its advantages 
than myself, who had no title to be included in it. 

Having already satisfied myself as to the several modes in 
which the four others attained felicity, I next set my mind 
at work to discover what enjoyments were peculiar to the old 
“ straggler,” as the people of the country would have termed 
the wandering mendicant and prophet. As he pretended to 
familiarity with the devil, so I fancied that he was fitted to 
pursue and take delight in his way of life by possessing 
some of the mental and moral characteristics — the lighter 
and more comic ones — of the devil in popular stories. 
Among them might be reckoned a love of deception for 
its own sake, a shrewd eye and keen relish for human weakness 
and ridiculous infirmity, and the talent of petty fraud. Thus 
to this old man there would be pleasure even in the conscious- 
ness — so insupportable to some minds — that his whole life 
was a cheat upon the world, and that, so far as he was con- 
cerned with the public, his little cunning had the upper hand 
of its united wisdom. Every day would furnish him with a 
succession of minute and pungent triumphs — as when, for 
instance, his importunity wrung a pittance out of the heart of 
a miser, or when my silly good-nature transferred a part of 
my slender purse to his plump leather bag, or when some os- 


406 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


tentatious gentleman should throw a coin to the ragged beg- 
gar who was richer than himself, or when — though he would 
not always be so decidedly diabolical — his pretended wants- 
should make him a sharer in the scanty living of real in- 
digence. And then what an inexhaustible field of enjoyment, 
both as enabling him to discern so much folly and achieve 
such -quantities of minor mischief, was opened to his sneering 
spirit by his pretensions to prophetic knowledge. 

All this was a sort of happiness which I could conceive of, 
though I had little sympathy with it. Perhaps, had I been 
then inclined to admit it, I might have found that the roving 
life was more proper to him than to either of his companions; 
for Satan, to whom I had compared the poor man, has de- 
lighted, ever since the time of Job, in “ wandering up and 
down upon the earth,” and, indeed, a crafty disposition which 
operates not in deep-laid plans, but in disconnected tricks, 
could not have an adequate scope, unless naturally impelled to 
a continual change of scene and society. 

My reflections were here interrupted. 

“Another visitor!” exclaimed the old showman. 

The door of the wagon had been closed against the tem- 
pest, which was roaring and blustering with prodigious fury 
and commotion and beating violently against our shelter, as 
if it claimed all those homeless people for its lawful prey, 
while we, caring little for the displeasure of the elements, sat 
comfortably talking. There was now an attempt to open the 
door, succeeded by a voice uttering some strange, unintelli- 
gible gibberish which my companions mistook for Greek and 
I suspected to be thieves’ Latin. However, the showman step- 
ped forward and gave admittance to a figure which made me 
imagine either that our wagon had rolled back two hundred 
years into past ages or that the forest and its old inhabitants 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


407 


had sprung up around us by enchantment. It was a red 
Indian, armed with his bow and arrow. His dress was a 
sort of cap adorned with a single feather of some wild bird, 
and a frock of blue cotton girded tight about him; on his 
breast, like orders of knighthood, hung a crescent and a cir- 
cle and other ornaments of silver, while a small crucifix be- 
| tokened that our father the pope had interposed between the 
Indian and the Great Spirit whom he had worshipped in his 
! simplicity. This son of the wilderness and pilgrim of the 
storm took his place silently in the midst of us. When the 
1 first surprise was over, I rightly conjectured him to be one 
of the Penobscot tribe, parties of which I had often seen 
in their summer excursions down our Eastern rivers. There 
they paddle their birch canoes among the coasting-schooners, 
and build their wigwam beside some roarirfg mill-dam, and 
drive a little trade in basket-work where their fathers hunted 
deer. Our new visitor was probably wandering through the 

[ country toward Boston, subsisting on the careless charity of 
the people while he turned his archery to profitable account 
ri hy shooting at cents which were to be the prize of his suc- 
I cessful aim. 

The Indian had not long been seated ere our merry damsel 
I sought to draw him into conversation. She, indeed, seemed all 
j made up of sunshine in the month of May, for there was noth- 
ing so dark and dismal that her pleasant mind could not cast 
a glow over it; and the wild man, like a fir-tree in his native 
forest, soon began to brighten into a sort of sombre cheer- 
fulness. At length she inquired whether his journey had any 
particular end or purpose. 

“ I go shoot at the camp-meeting at Stamford,” replied the 
Indian. 

“And here are five more,” said the girl, “all aiming at the 


<08 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


camp-meeting too. You shall be one of us, for we travel 
with light hearts; and, as for me, I sing merry songs and tell 
merry tales and am full of merry thoughts, and I dance mer- 
rily along the road, so that there is never any sadness among 
them that keep me company. But oh, you would find It 
very dull indeed to go all the way to Stamford alone.” 

My ideas of the aboriginal character led me to fear that the 
Indian would prefer his own solitary musings to the gay 
society thus offered him; on the contrary, the girl’s proposal 
met with immediate acceptance and seemed to animate him 
with a misty expectation of enjoyment. 

I now gave myself up to a course of thought which, whether 
it flowed naturally from this combination of events, or was 
drawn forth by a wayward fancy, caused my mind to thrill 
as if I were listening to deep music. I saw mankind in this 
weary old age of the world either enduring a sluggish ex- 
istence amid the smoke and dust of cities, or if they breathed 
a purer air, still lying down at night with no hope but to 
wear out to-morrow and all the to-morrows which make up 
life, among the same dull scenes and in the same wretched 
toil that had darkened the sunshine of to-day. But there 
were some full of the primeval instinct who preserved the 
freshness of youth to their latest years by the continual excite- 
ment of new objects, new pursuits and new associates, and 
cared little, though their birthplace might have been here in 
New England, if the grave should close over them in Cen*» 
tral Asia. Fate was summoning a parliament of these free 
spirits; unconscious of the impulse which directed them to a 
common centre, they had come hither from far and near, and, 
last of all appeared the representatives of those mighty va- 
grants who had chased the deer during thousands of years, 
and were chasing it now in the spirit land. Wandering down 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


409 


through the waste of ages the woods had vanished around 
his path; his arm had lost somewhat of its strength, his foot 
of its fleetness, his mien of its wild regality, his heart and 
mind of their savage virtue and uncultured force, but here, 
untamable to the routine of artificial life, roving now along the 
dusty road as of old over the forest leaves, — here was the 
Indian still. 

“ Well,” said the old showman, in the midst of my medita- 
tions, “ here is an honest company of us — one, two, three, 
four, five, six — all going to the camp-meeting at Stamford. 
Now, hoping no offense, I should like to know where this 
young gentleman may be going?” 

I started. How came I among these wanderers? The 
free mind that preferred its own folly to another’s wisdom, 
the open spirit that found companions everywhere — above all 
the restless impulse that had so often made me wretched in 
the midst of enjoyments, — these were my claims to be of 
their society. 

“ My friends,” cried I, stepping into the centre of the 
wagon, “ I am going with you to the camp-meeting at Stam- 
ford.” 

“But in what capacity?” asked the old showman, after a 
moment’s silence. “All of us here can get our bread in some 
creditable way. Every honest man should have his livelihood. 
You, sir, as I take it, are a mere strolling gentleman.” 

I proceeded to inform the company that when Nature gave 
me a propensity to their way of life she had not left me alto- 
gether destitute of qualifications for it, though I could not 
deny that my talent was less respectable, and might be less 
profitable, than the meanest of theirs. My design, in short, 
was to imitate the story tellers of whom Oriental travelers 
have told us, and become an itinerant novelist, reciting my own 


410 


TWICE-l'OLD TALES 


extemporaneous fictions to such audiences as I could collect 

“ Either this,” said I, “ is my vocation, or I have been born 
in vain.” 

The fortune teller, with a sly wink to the company, proposed 
to take me as an apprentice to one or other of his professions, 
either of which undoubtedly would have given full scope to 
whatever inventive talent I might possess. The bibliopolist 
spoke a few words in opposition to my plan — influenced 
partly, I suspect, by the jealousy of authorship, and partly by 
an apprehension that the viva-voce practice would become 
general among novelists, to the infinite detriment of the book 
trade. 

Dreading a rejection, I solicited the interest of the merry 
damsel. 

“ * Mirth,’ ” cried I, most aptly appropriating the words of 
L’Allegro, “ £ to thee I sue ! Mirth, admit me of thy crew ! ’ ” 

“ Let us indulge the poor youth,” said Mirth, with a kind- 
ness which made me love her dearly, though I was no such 
coxcomb as to misinterpret her motives. “ I have espied much 
promise in him. True, a shadow sometimes flits across his 
brow, but the sunshine is sure to follow in a moment. He is 
never guilty of a sad thought but a merry one is twin-born 
with it. We will take him with us, and you, shall see that he 
will set us all a-laughing before we reach the camp-meeting 
at Stamford.” Her voice silenced the scruples of the rest and 
gained me admittance into the league; according to the terms 
of which, without a community of goods or profits, we were to 
lend each other all the aid and avert all the harm that might 
be in our power. 

This affair settled, a marvellous jollity entered into the 
whole tribe of us, manifesting itself characteristically in each 
individual. The old showman, sitting down to his barrel 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


411 


organ, stirred up the souls of the pigmy people with one of 
the quickest tunes in the music book; tailors, blacksmiths, 
gentlemen and ladies all seemed to share in the spirit of the 
occasion, and the Merry Andrew played his part more face- 
tiously than ever, nodding and winking particularly at me. 
The young foreigner flourished his fiddle-bow with a mas- 
ter’s hand, and gave an inspiring echo to the showman’s 
melody. The bookish man and the merry damsel started up 
simultaneously to dance, the former enacting the double shuf- 
fle in a style which everybody must have witnessed ere elec- 
tion week was blotted out of time, while the girl, setting her 
arms akimbo with both hands at her slim waist, displayed 
such light rapidity of foot and harmony of varying attitude 
and motion that I could not conceive how she ever was to 
stop, imagining at the moment that Nature had made her, 
as the old showman had made his puppets, for no earthly pur- 
pose but to dance jigs. The Indian bellowed forth a succes- 
sion of most hideous outcries, somewhat affrighting us till 
we interpreted them as the war song with which, in imitation 
of his ancestors, he was prefacing the assault on Stamford. 
The conjurer, meanwhile, sat demurely in a corner extract- 
ing a sly enjoyment from the whole scene, and, like the face- 
tious Merry Andrew, directing his queer glance particularly 
at me. As for myself, with great exhilaration of fancy, I 
began to arrange and color the incidents of a tale wherewith 
I proposed to amuse an audience that very evening; for I saw 
that my associates were a little ashamed of me, and that no 
time was to be lost in obtaining a public acknowledgment of 
my abilities. 

“ Come, fellow-laborers,” at last said the old showman, 


412 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


whom we had elected president ; “ the shower is over, and we 
must be doing our duty by these poor souls at Stamford.” 

“ We’ll come among them in procession, with music and 
dancing,” cried the merry damsel. 

Accordingly — for it must be understood that our pilgrim- 
age was to be performed on foot — we sallied joyously out 
of the wagon, each of us, even the old gentleman in his white 
top boots, giving a great skip as we came down the ladder. 
Above our heads there was such a glory of sunshine and splen- 
dor of clouds, and such brightness of verdure below, that, as 
I . modestly remarked at the time, Nature seemed to have 
washed her face and put on the best of her jewelry and a 
fresh green gown in honor of our confederation. Casting our 
eyes northward, we beheld a horseman ‘approaching leisurely 
and splashing through the little puddle on the Stamford road. 
Onward he came, sticking up in his saddle with rigid per- 
pendicularity, a tall, thin figure in rusty black, whom the show- 
man and the conjurer shortly recognized to be what his aspect 
sufficiently indicated — a traveling preacher of great fame 
among the Methodists. What puzzled us was the fact that 
his face appeared turned from, instead of to, the camp-meet- 
ing at Stamford. However, as this new votary of the wan- 
dering life drew near the little green space where the guide- 
post and our \vagon were situated, my six fellow vagabonds 
and myself rushed forward and surrounded him, crying out 
with united voices : 

“What news? What news from the camp-meeting at Stam- 
ford?” 

The missionary looked down in surprise at as singular a 
knot of people as could have been selected from all his hetero- 
geneous auditors. Indeed, considering that we might all be 
classified under the general head of Vagabond, there was great 


THE SEVEN VAGABONDS 


413 


diversity of character among the grave old showman, the sly, 
prophetic beggar, the fiddling foreigner and his merry damsel, 
the smart bibliopolist, the sombre Indian and myself, the itin- 
: erant novelist, a slender youth of eighteen. I even fancied 
that a smile was endeavoring to disturb the iron gravity of the 
preacher’s mouth. 

“ Good people,” answered he, “the camp-meeting is broke 
up.” 

So saying, the Methodist minister switched his steed and 
rode westward. Our union being thus nullified by the re- 
moval of its object, we were sundered at once to the four 
winds of heaven. The fortune teller, giving a nod to all and 
a peculiar wink to me, departed on his Northern tour, chuck- 
ling within himself as he took the Stamford road. The old 
showman and his literary coadjutor were already tackling their 
horses to the wagon with a design to peregrinate southwest 
along the seacoast. The foreigner and the merry damsel took 
their laughing leave and pursued the eastern road, which I 
had that day trodden; as they passed away the young man 
played a lively strain and the girl’s happy spirit broke into a 
dance, and, thus dissolving, as it were, into sunbeams and 
gay music, that pleasant pair departed from my view. Finally, 
with a pensive shadow thrown across my mind, yet emulous 
of the light philosophy of my late companions, I joined myself 
to the Penobscot Indian and set forth toward the distant city. 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 

The moonbeams came through two deep and narrow win* 
dows and showed a spacious chamber richly furnished in an 
antique fashion. From one lattice the shadow of the dia- 
mond panes was thrown upon the floor; the ghostly light 
through the other slept upon a bed, falling between the heavy 
silken curtains and illuminating the face of a young man. But 
how quietly the slumberer lay! how pale his features* And 
how like a shroud the sheet was wound about his frame! Yes, 
it was a corpse in its burial clothes. 

Suddenly the fixed features seemed to move with dark emo- 
tion. Strange fantasy ! It was but the, shadow of the fringed 
curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the moonlight as 
the door of the chamber opened and a girl stole softly to the 
bedside. Was there delusion in the moonbeams, or did her 
gesture and her eye betray a gleam of triumph as she bent 
over the pale corpse, pale as itself, and pressed her living lips 
to the cold ones of the dead? As she drew back from that 
long kiss her features writhed as if a proud heart were fight- 
ing with its anguish. Again it seemed that the features of 
the corpse had moved responsive to her own. Still an il- 
lusion. The silken curtains had waved a second time 
betwixt the dead face and the moonlight as another fair 
young girl unclosed the door and glided ghostlike to the 
bedside. There the two maidens stood, both beautiful, 
with the pale beauty of the dead between them. But she 

414 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 


415 


who had first entered was proud and stately, and the 
other a soft and fragile thing. 

‘"Away!” cried the lofty one. “Thou hadst him living, 
the dead is mine.” 

“Thine!” returned the other, shuddering. “Well hast 
thou spoken; the dead is thine.” 

The proud girl started and stared into her face with a 
ghastly look, but a wild and mournful expression passed 
across the features of the gentle one, and, weak and help- 
less, she sank down on the bed, her head pillowed be- 
side that of the corpse and her hair mingling with his 
dark locks. A creature of hope and joy, the first draught 
of sorrow had bewildered her. 

“Edith!” cried her rival. 

Edith groaned as with a sudden compression pf the 
heart, and, removing her cheek from he dead youth’s 
pillow, she stood upright, fearfully encountering the eyes of 
the lofty girl. 

“Wilt thou betray me?” said the latter, calmly. 

“ Till the dead bid me speak I will be silent,” an- 
swered Edith. “ Leave us alone together. Go and 
live many years, and then return and tell me of thy 
life. He too will be here. Then, if thou tellest of 
sufferings more than death, we will both forgive thee.” 

“And what shall be the token?” asked the proud 
girl, as if her heart acknowledged a meaning in these 
wild worlds. 

“ This lock of hair,” said Edith, lifting one of the dark 
clustering curls that lay heavily on the dead man’s 
brow. 

The two maidens joined their hands over the bosom 
of the corpse arid appointed a day and hour far, far in 


416 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


time to come for their next meeting in that chamber 
The statelier girl gave one deep look at the motionless 
countenance and departed, yet turned again and trem- 
bled ere she closed the door, almost believing that her 
dead lover frowned upon her. And Edith, too! Was 
not her white form fading into the moonlight? Scorn- 
ing her own weakness, she went forth and perceived 
that a negro slave was waiting in the passage with a 
waxlight, which he held between her face and his own 
and regarded her, as she thought, with an ugly expres- 
sion of merriment. Lifting his torch on high, the slave 
lighted her down the staircase and undid the portal of 
the mansion. The young clergyman of the town had 
just ascended the steps, and, bowing to the lady, passed 
in without a word. 

Years — many years — rolled on. The world seemed 
new again, so much older was it grown since the night 
when those pale girls had clasped their hands across 
the bosom of the corpse. In the interval a lonely 
woman had passed from youth to extreme age, and was 
known by all the town as the “ Old Maid in the Wind- 
ing-Sheet.” A taint of insanity had affected her whole 
life, but so quiet, sad and gentle, so utterly free from 
violence, that she was suffered to pursue her harmless 
fantasies unmolested by the world with whose business 
or pleasures she had naught to do. She dwelt alone, 
and never came into the daylight except to follow funer- 
als, Whenever a corpse was borne along the street, in 
sunshine, rain or snow, whether a pompous train of the 
rich and proud thronged after it, or few and humble 
were the mourners, behind them came the lonely woman 
in a long white garment whirh the people called her 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 


417 


shroud. She took no place among the kindred or the 
friends, but stood at the door to hear the funeral prayer, 
and walked in the rear of the procession as one whose 
earthly charge it was to haunt the house of mourning 
and be the shadow of affliction and see that the dead 
were duly buried. So long had this been her custom 
that the inhabitants of the town deemed her a part of 
every funeral, as much as the coffin-pall or the very corpse 
itself, and augured ill of the sinner’s destiny unless the 
Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet came gliding like a ghost 
behind. Once, it is said, she affrighted a bridal party 
with her pale presence, appearing suddenly in the illumi- 
nated hall iust as the priest was uniting a false maid to 
a wealthy man before her lover had been dead a year. 
Evil was the omen to that marriage. Sometimes she 
stole forth by moonlight and visited the graves of ven- 
erable integrity and wedded love and virgin innocence, 
and every spot where the ashes of a kind and faithful 
heart were mouldering. Over the hillocks of those fa- 
vored dead would she stretch out her arms with a ges- 
ture as if she were scattering seeds, and many believed 
that she brought them from the garden of Paradise, for the 
graves which she had visited were green beneath the snow 
and covered with sweet flowers from April to November. 
Her blessing was better than a holy verse upon the 
tombstone. Thus wore away her long, sad, peaceful 
and fantastic life till few were so old as she, and the 
people of later generations wondered how the dead had 
ever been buried or mourners had endured their grief 
without the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. Still years 
went on, and still she followed funerals and was not yet 
summoned to her own festival of death. 


418 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


One afternoon the great street of the town was all 
alive with business and bustle, though the sun now gilded 
only the upper half of the church-spire, having left the 
house-tops and loftiest trees in shadow. The scene was 
cheerful and animated in spite of the sombre shade be- 
tween the high brick buildings. Here were pompous 
merchants in white wigs and laced velvet, the bronzed 
faces of sea captains, the foreign garb and air of Spanish 
creoles, and the disdainful port of natives of Old Eng- 
land, all contrasted with the rough aspect of one or two 
back-settlers negotiating sales of timber from forests 
where axe had never sounded. Sometimes a lady passed, 
swelling roundly forth in an embroidered petticoat, bal- 
ancing her steps in high-heeled shoes and courtesying 
with lofty grace to the punctilious obeisances of the gen- 
tlemen. The life of the town seemed to have its very 
centre not far from an old mansion that stood somewhat 
back from the pavement, surrounded by neglected grass, 
with a strange air of loneliness rather deepened than 
dispelled by the throng so near it. Its site would have 
been suitably occupied by a magnificent Exchange or 
a brick block lettered all over with various signs, or the 
large house itself might have made a noble tavern with 
the “ King’s Arms ” swinging before it and guests 
in every chamber, instead of the present solitude. But, 
owing to some dispute about the right of inheritance, the 
mansion had been long without a tenant, decaying from year 
to year, and throwing the stately gloom of its shadow over 
the busiest part of the town. 

Such was the scene, and such the time, when a figure 
unlike any that have been described was observed at a dis- 
tance down the street. 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 


419 


“ I spy a strange sail yonder,” remarked a Liverpool 
captain — “ that woman in the long white garment.” 

The sailor seemed much struck by the object, as were 
several others who at the same moment caught a glimpse 
of the figure that had attracted his notice. Almost im- 
mediately the various topics of conversation gave place 
to speculations in an undertone on this unwonted occur* 
rence. 

“ Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon?” in- 
quired some. 

They looked for the signs of death at every door — 
the sexton, the hearse, the assemblage of black-clad rela- 
tives, all that makes up the woful pomp of funerals. 
They raised their eyes, also, to the sun-gilt spire of the 
church, and wondered that no clang proceeded from its 
bell, which had always tolled till now when this figure 
appeared in the light of day. But none had heard that 
a corpse was to be borne to its home that afternoon, nor 
was there any token of a funeral except the apparition 
of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. 

“What may this portend?” asked each man of his 
neighbor. 

All smiled as they put the question, yet with a certain 
trouble in their eyes, as if pestilence, or some other wide 
calamity were prognosticated by the untimely intrusion 
among the living of one whose presence had always been 
associated with death and woe. What a comet is to the 
earth was that sad woman to the town. Still she moved 
on, while the hum of surprise was hushed at her ap- 
proach, and the proud and the humble stood aside that 
her white garment might not wave against them. It was 
a long, loose robe of spotless purity. Its wearer ap- 


420 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


peared very old, pale, emaciated and feeble, yet glided on« 
ward without the unsteady pace of extreme age. At one 
point of her course a little rosy boy burst forth from a 
door and ran with open arms toward the ghostly woman, 
seeming to expect a kiss from her bloodless lips. She 
made a slight pause, fixing her eye upon him with an 
expression of no earthly sweetness, so that the child 
shivered and stood awestruck rather than affrighted while 
the Old Maid passed on. Perhaps her garment might 
have been polluted even by an infant’s touch; perhaps 
her kiss would have been death to the sweet boy within 
the year. 

“ She is but a shadow,” whispered the superstitious. 
“The child put forth his arms and could not grasp her 
robe.” 

The wonder was increased when the Old Maid passed 
beneath the porch of the deserted mansion, ascended 
the moss-covered steps, lifted the iron knocker and gave 
three raps. The people could only conjecture that some 
old remembrance, troubling her bewildered brain, had 
impelled the poor woman hither to visit the friends of 
her youth — all gone from their home long since, and 
forever, unless their ghosts still haunted it, fit company 
for the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. 

An elderly man approached the steps, and, reverently 
uncovering his gray locks, essayed to explain the matter. 

“ None, madam,” said he, “ have dwelt in this house 
these fifteen years agone — no, not since the death of 
old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral you may remember 
to have followed. His heirs, being ill-agreed among 
themselves, have let the mansion-house go to ruin.” 

The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight g^s- 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 


421 


ture of one hand and a finger of the other upon her lip, 
appearing more shadow-like than ever in the obscurity 
of the porch. But again she lifted the hammer, and 
gave, this time, a single rap. Could it be that a footstep 
was now heard coming down the staircase of the old 
mansion, which all conceived to have been so long un- 
tenanted? Slowly, feebly, yet heavily, like the pace of 
an aged and infirm person, the step approached, more 
distinct on every downward stair, till it reached the por- 
tal. The bar fell on the inside; the door was opened. 
One upward glance toward the church-spire, whence the 
sunshine had just faded, was the last that the people saw 
of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. 

“Who undid the door?” asked many. 

This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath 
the porch, no one could satisfactorily answer. Two or 
three aged men, while protesting against an inference 
which might be drawn, affirmed that the person within 
was a negro, and bore a singular resemblance to Old 
Caesar, formerly a slave in the house, but freed by death 
some thirty years before. 

“ Her summons has waked up a servant of the old 
family,” said one, half seriously. 

“Let us wait here,” replied another; “more guests will 
knock at the door anon. But the gate of the graveyard 
should be thrown open.” 

Twilight had overspread the town before the crowd 
began to separate, or the comments on this incident 
were exhausted. One after another was wending his 
way homeward, when a coach — no common spectacle 
in those days — drove slowly into the street. It was 
an old-fashioned equipage, hanging close to the ground. 


422 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


with arms on the panels, a footman behind, and a grave, 
corpulent coachman seated high in front, the whole giv- 
ing an idea of solemn state and dignity. There was 
something awful in the heavy rumbling of the wheels. 

The coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the 
gateway of the deserted mansion, it drew up, and the 
footman sprang to the ground. 

“Whose grand coach is this?” asked a very inquisi- 
tive body. 

The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps 
of the old house, gave three taps with the iron hammer, 
and returned to open the coach door. An old man pos- 
sessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day ex- 
amined the shield of arms on the panel. 

“Azure, a lion’s head erased, between three flowers 
de luce,” said he, then whispered the name of the fam- 
ily to whom these bearings -belonged. The last inher- 
itor of its honors was recently dead, after a long resi- 
dence amid the splendor of the British court, where his 
birth and wealth had given him no mean station. “ He 
left no child,” continued the herald, and these arms, 
being in a lozenge, betoken that the coach appertains 
to his widow.” 

Further disclosures, perhaps, might have been made 
had not the speaker been suddenly struck dumb by the 
stern eye of an ancient lady who thrust forth her head 
from the coach, preparing to descend. As she emerged 
the people saw that her dress was magnificent, and her 
figure dignified in spite of age and infirmity — a stately 
ruin, but with a look at once of pride and wretchedness. 
Her strong and rigid features had an awe about them 
unlike that of the white Old Maid, but as of something 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 


423 


evil. She passed up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed 
cane. The door swung open as she ascended, and the 
light of a torch glittered on the embroidery of her dress 
and gleamed on the pillars of the porch. After a mo- 
mentary pause, a glance backward and then a desperate 
effort, she went in. 

The decipherer of the coat-of-arms had ventured up 
the. lower step, and, shrinking back immediately, pale 
and tremulous, affirmed that the torch was held by the 
very image of old Csesar. 

“ But such a hideous grin,” added he, “ was never seen 
on the face of mortal man, black or white. It will haunt 
me till my dying-day.” 

Meantime, the coach had wheeled round with a pro- 
digious clatter on the pavement and rumbled up the 
street, disappearing in the twilight, while the ear still 
tracked its course. Scarcely was it gone when the peo- 
ple began to question whether the coach and attendants, 
the ancient lady, the spectre of old Caesar and the Old 
Maid herself were not all a strangely-combined delusion 
with some dark purport in its mystery. The whole town 
was astir, so that, instead of dispersing, the crowd con- 
tinually increased, and stood gazing up at the windows of 
the mansion, now silvered by the brightening moon. The 
elders, glad to indulge the narrative propensity of age, 
told of the long-faded splendor of the family, the enter- 
tainments they had given and the guests, the greatest of 
the land, and even titled and noble ones from abroad, 
who had passed beneath that portal. These graphic 
reminiscences seemed to call up the ghosts of those to 
whom they referred. So strong was the impression on 
some of the more imaginative hearers that two or three 


424 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


were seized with trembling fits at one and the same mo- 
ment, protesting that they had distinctly heard three other 
raps of the iron knocker. 

“Impossible!” exclaimed others. “See! The moon 
shines beneath the porch, and shows every part of it ex- 
cept in the narrow shade of that pillar. There is no one 
there.” 

“Did not the door open?” whispered one of these fanciful 
persons. 

“ Didst thou see it, too ?” said his companion, in a startled 
tone. 

But the general sentiment was opposed to the idea that 
a third visitant had made application at the door of the 
deserted house. A few, however, adhered to this new 
marvel, and even declared that a red gleam like that of 
a torch had shone through the great front window, as 
if the negro were lighting a guest up the staircase. This, 
too, was pronounced a mere fantasy. 

But at once the whole multitude started, and each man 
beheld his own terror painted in the faces of all the rest. 

“ What an awful thing' is this !” cried they. 

A shriek, too fearfully distinct for doubt, had been 
heard within the mansion, breaking forth suddenly and 
succeeded by a deep stillness, as if a heart had burst in 
giving it utterance. The people knew not whether to 
fly from the very sight of the house or to rush trembling 
in and Cfi arch out the strange mystery. Amid their con- 
fusion and affright they were somewhat reassured by the 
appearance of their clergyman, a venerable patriarch, 
and equally a saint, who had taught them and their 
fathers the way to heaven for more than the space of an 
ordinary lifetime. He was a reverend figure with long 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 425 

white hair upon his shoulders, a white beard upon his 
breast, and a back so bent over his staff that he seemed 
to be looking downward continually, as if to choose a 
proper grave for his weary frame. It was some time 
before the good old man, being deaf and of impaired 
intellect, could be made to comprehend such portions 
of the affair as were comprehensible at all. But when 
possessed of the facts, his energies assumed unexpected 
vigor. 

“Verily,” said the old gentleman, “it will be fitting 
that I enter the mansion-house of the worthy Colonel 
Fenwicke, lest any harm should have befallen that true 
Christian woman whom ye call the * Old Maid in the 
Winding-Sheet.’ ” 

Behold, the'n, the venerable clergyman ascending the 
steps of the mansion with a torch-bearer behind him. 
It was the elderly man who had spoken to the Old Maid, 
and the same who had afterward explained the shield of 
arms and recognized the features of the negro. Like 
their predecessors, they gave three raps with the iron 
hammer. / 

“Old Caesar cometh not,” observed the priest. “Well, 
I wot he no longer doth service in this mansion.” 

“Assuredly, then, it was something worse in old Cae- 
sar’s likeness,” said the other adventurer. 

u Be it as God wills,” answered the clergyman. “See! 
my strength, though it be much decayed, hath sufficed 
to open this heavy door. Let us enter and pass up the 
staircase.” 

Here occurred a singular exemplification of the dreamy 
state of a very old man’s mind. As they ascended the 
wide flight of stairs the aged clergyman appeared to 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


426 

move with caution, occasionally standing aside, and" 
oftener bending his head, as it were in salutation, thus 
practicing all the gestures of one who makes his way 
through a throng. Reaching the head of the staircase, 
he looked around with sad and solemn benignity, laid 
aside his staff, bared his hoary locks, and was evidently 
on the point of commencing a prayer. 

“ Reverend sir,” said his attendant, who conceived 
this a very suitable prelude to their further search, 
“would it not be well that the people join with us in 
prayer? ” 

“ Well-a-day ! ” cried the old clergyman, staring 
strangely around him. “Art thou here with me, and 
none other? Verily, past times were present to me, and 
I deemed that I was to make a funeral prayer, as many 
a time heretofore, from the head of this staircase. Of 
a truth, I saw the shades of many that are gone. Yea, 

I have prayed at their burials, one after another, and 
the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet hath seen them to 
their graves.” 

Being now more thoroughly awake to their present 
purpose, he took his staff and struck forcibly on the 
floor, till there came an echo from each deserted cham- 
ber, but no menial to answer their summons. They, 
therefore, walked along the passage, and again paused, 
opposite to the great front window, through which was 
seen the crowd in the shadow and partial moonlight of 
the street beneath. On the right hand was the open 
door of a chamber, and a closed one on their left. 

The clergyman pointed his cane to the carved oak 
panel of the latter. 

“ Within that chamber,” observed he, “ a whole life- 


THE WHITE OLD MAID 


427 


time since, did I sit by the death-bed of a goodly young 
man, who, being now at the last gasp — ” Apparently, 
there was some powerful excitement in the ideas which 
had now flashed across his mind. He snatched the 
torch, from his companion’s hand, and threw open the 
door with such sudden violence that the flame was extin- 
guished, leaving them no other light than the moonbeams 
which fell through two windows into the spacious , chamber. 
It was sufficient to discover all that could be known. In a 
high-backed oaken arm-chair, upright, with her hands clasped 
across her breast and her head thrown back, sat the 
Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. The stately dame 
had fallen on her knees with her forehead on the holy 
knees of the Old Maid, one hand upon the floor and the 
other pressed convulsively against her heart. It clutched a 
lock of hair — once sable, now discolored with a greenish 
mould. 

As the priest and layman advanced into the chamber 
the Old Maid’s features assumed such a semblance of shift- 
ing expression that .they trusted to hear the whole mystery 
explained by a single word. But it was only the shadow of 
a tattered curtain waving betwixt the dead face and the 
moonlight. 

“ Both dead ! ” said the venerable man. “ Then who shall 
divulge the secret? Methinks it glimmers to and fro in 
my mind like the light and shadow across the Old Maid’s 
face. And now ’tis gone ! ” 


PETER GO LDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


“ And so, Peter, you won’t even consider of the busi- 
ness?” said Mr. John Brown, buttoning his surtout over 
the snug rotundity of his person and drawing on his 
gloves. “ You positively refuse to let me have this crazy 
old house, and the land under and adjoining, at the price 
named ?” 

“ Neither at that, nor treble the sum,” responded the 
gaunt, grizzled and threadbare Peter Goldthwaite. “ The 
fact is, Mr. Brown, you must find another site for your 
brick block, and be content to leave my estate with the 
present owner. Next summer I intend to put a splendid new 
mansion over the cellar of the old house.” 

“ Pho, Peter ! ” cried Mr. Brown as he opened the kitchen 
door; “content yourself with building castles in the air, 
where house-lots are cheaper than on earth, to say noth- 
ing of the cost of bricks and mortar. Such founda- 
tions are solid enough for your edifices, while this under- 
neath us is just the thing for mine; and so we may both be 
suited. What say you again?” 

“Precisely what I said before, Mr. Brown,” answered 
Peter Goldthwaite. “And, as for castles in the air, mine 
may not be as magnificent as that sort of architecture, 
but perhaps as substantial, Mr. Brown, as the very re- 
spectable brick block with dry-goods stores, tailors’ shops 
and bankzug-rooms on the lower floor, and lawyers” 

4?.8 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 42? 

offices in the second story, which you are so anxious ta 
substitute.” 

“And the cost, Peter? Eh?” said Mr. Brown as he 
withdrew in something of a pet. “ That, I suppose, will 
be provided for off-hand by drawing a check on Bubble 
Bank?” 

John Brown and Peter Goldthwaite had been jointly 
known to the commercial world between twenty and 
thirty years before under the firm of Goldthwaite and 
Brown; which copartnership, however, was speedily dis- 
solved by the natural incongruity of its constituent parts. 
Since that event John Brown, with exactly the qualities 
of a thousand other John Browns, and by just such 
plodding methods as they used, had prospered wonder- 
fully and become one of the wealthiest John Browns orti 
earth. Peter Goldthwaite, on the contrary, after innu- 
merable schemes which ought to have collected all the 
coin ar.d paper currency of the country into his coffers, 
was as needy a gentleman as ever wore a patch upon his 
elbow. The contrast between him and his former partner 
may be briefly marked, for Brown never reckoned upon 
luck, yet always had it, while Peter made luck the main 
condition of his projects, and always missed it. While 
the means held out his speculations had been magnifi- 
cent, but were chiefly confined of late years to such 
small business as adventures in the lottery. Once, he 
had gone on a gold gathering expedition somewhere to 
the South, and ingeniously contrived to empty his pockets 
more thoroughly than ever, while others, doubtless, were 
filling theirs with native bullion by the handful. More 
recently he had expended a legacy of a thousand or two 
of dollars in purchasing Mexican scrip, and thereby be- 


t 


430 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


came the proprietor of a province; which, however, so 
far as Peter could find out, was situated where he might 
have had an empire for the same money — in the clouds. 
From a search after this valuable real estate, Peter re- 
turned so gaunt and threadbare, that on reaching New 
England the scarecrows in the cornfields beckoned to 
him as he passed by. “ They did but flutter in the wind/' 
quoth Peter Goldthwaite. No Peter, they beckoned, for 
the scarecrows knew their brother. 

At the period of our story his whole visible income 
would not have paid the tax of the old mansion in which 
we find him. It was one of those rusty, moss-grown, 
many-peaked wooden houses which 'are scattered about 
the streets of our elder towns, with a beetle-browed 
second story projecting over the foundation, as if it 
frowned at the novelty around it. This old paternal edi 
fice, needy as he was, and though, being centrally situated 
on the principal street of the town, it would have brought 
him a handsome sum, the sagacious Peter had his own 
reasons for never parting with, either by auction or pri- 
vate sale. There seemed, indeed, to be a fatality that 
connected him with his birthplace; for often as he had 
stood on the verge of ruin, and standing there even now, 
he had not yet taken this step beyond it which would 
have compelled him to surrender the house to his credit- 
ors. So here he dwelt with bad luck till good should 
come. 

Here, then, in his kitchen — the only room where a 
spark of fire took off the chill of a November evening 
— poor Peter Goldthwaite had just been visited by his 
rich old partner. At the close of their interview, Peter 
with rather a mortified look, glanced downward at his 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


431 


dress, parts of which appeared as ancient as the days of 
Goldthwaite & Brown. His upper garment was a mixed 
surtout, wofully faded, and patched with newer stuff on 
each elbow; beneath this he wore a threadbare black coat, 
some of the silk buttons of which had been replaced with 
others of a different pattern; and lastly, though he lacked 
not a pair of gray pantaloons, they were very shabby 
ones r and had been partially turned brown by the frequent 
toasting of Peter’s shins before a scanty fire. Peter’s per- 
son was in keeping with his goodly apparel. Gray-headed, 
hollow-eyed, pale-cheeked and lean-bodied, he was the 
perfect picture of a man who had fed on windy schemes 
and empty hopes till he could neither live on such 
unwholesome trash nor stomach more substantial food. 
But, withal this, Peter Goldthwaite, crack-brained simple- 
ton as, perhaps, he was, might have cut a very brilliant 
figure in the world had he employed his imagination in 
the airy business of poetry instead of making it a demon 
of mischief in mercantile pursuits. After all, he was no 
bad fellow, but as harmless as a child, and as honest and 
honorable, and as much of the gentleman which Nature 
meant him for, as an irregular life and depressed circum- 
stances will permit any man to be. 

As Peter stood on the uneven bricks of his hearth, look- 
ing round at the disconsolate old kitchen, his eyes began 
to kindle with the illumination of an enthusiasm that 
never long deserted him. He raised his hand, clinched it, 
and smote it energetically against the smoky panel over 
the fireplace. 

“The time is come,” said he; “with such a treasure 
at command, it were folly to be a poor man any longer. 


432 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


To-morrow morning I will begin with the g*arret, nor 
desist till I have torn the house down. 

Deep in the chimney corner, like a witch in a dark 
cavern, sat a little old woman mending one of the two 
pairs of stockings wherewith Peter Goldthwaite kept his 
toes from being frost-bitten. As the feet were ragged past 
all darning, she had cut pieces out of a cast-off flannel 
petticoat to make new soles. Tabitha Porter was an old 
maid upward of sixty years of age, fifty-five of which she 
had sat in that same chimney-corner, such being the length 
of time since Peter’s grandfather had taken her from the 
almshouse. She had nd friend but Peter, nor Peter any 
friend but Tabitha; so long as Peter might have a shelter 
for his own head, Tabitha would know where to shelter 
hers, or, being homeless elsewhere, she would take her 
master by the hand and bring him to her native home, the 
almshouse. Should it ever be necessary, she loved him 
well enough to feed him with her last morsel, and clothe 
him with her under-petticoat. But Tabitha was a queer 
old woman, and, though never infected with Peter’s 
flightiness, had become so accustomed to his freaks and 
follies, that she viewed them all as matters of course. 
Hearing him threaten to tear tl\e house down, she looked 
quietly up from her work. 

“ Best leave the kitchen till the last, Mr. Peter,” said 
she. 

“ The sooner we have it all down, the better,” said 
Peter Goldthwaite. “ I am tired to death of living in this 
cold, dark, windy, smoky, creaking, groaning, dismal old 
house. I shall feel like a younger man when we get into 
my splendid brick mansion, as, please Heaven, we shall 
have by this time next autumn. You shall have a room 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


433 


on the sunny side, old Tabby, finished and furnished as 
best may suit your own notions.” 

“ I should like it pretty much such a room as this 
kitchen,” answered Tabitha. “ It will never be like home 
to me 'till the chimney-corner gets as black with smoke 
as this, and that won’t be these hundred years. How 
much do you mean to lay out on the house, Mr. Peter?” 

“ What is that to the purpose?” exclaimed Peter, loftily. 
“ Did not my great-grand-uncle, Peter Goldthwaite, who 
died seventy >ears ago, and whose namesake I am, leave 
treasure enough to build twenty such?” 

“ I can’t say but he did, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, thread- 
ing her needle. 

Tabitha well understood that Peter had reference to an 
immense hoard of the precious metals which was said 
to exist somewhere in the cellar or walls, or under the 
floors, or in some concealed closet or other out-of-the- 
way nook of the old house. This wealth, according to 
tradition, had been accumulated by a former Peter Gold- 
thwaite, whose character seems to have borne a remarka- 
ble similitude to that of the Peter of our story. Like him, 
he was a wild projector, seeking to heap up gold by the 
bushel and the cart-load, instead of scraping it together 
coin by coin. Like Peter the second, too, his projects 
had almost invariably failed, and, but for the magnificent 
success of the final one, would have left him with hardly 
a coat and pair of breeches to his gaunt and grizzled per- 
son. Reports were various as to the nature of his for- 
tunate speculation, one intimating that the ancient Peter 
had made the gold by alchemy; another, that he had con- 
jured it out of people’s pockets by the black art; and a 
third — still more unaccountable — that the devil had given 


43 - 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


him free access to the old provincial treasury. It was 
affirmed., however, that some secret impediment had de- 
barred him from the enjoyment of his riches, and that he 
had a motive for concealing them from his heir, or, at 
any rate, had died without disclosing the place of deposit. 
The present Peter’s father had faith enough in the story 
to cause the cellar to be dug over. Peter himself chose 
to consider the legend as an indisputable truth, and amid 
his many troubles had this one consolation — that, should 
ali other resources fail, he might build up his fortunes by 
tearing his house down. Yet, unless he felt a lurking dis- 
trust of the golden tale, it is difficult to account for his 
permitting the paternal roof to stand so long, since he 
had never yet seen the moment when his predecessor’s 
treasure would not have found plenty of room in his own 
strong-box. But now was the crisis. Should he delay 
the search a little longer, the house would pass from the 
lineal heir, and with it the vast heap of gold, to remain in 
its burial place till the ruin of the aged walls should dis- 
cover it to strangers of a future generation. 

“Yes,” ‘cried Peter Goldthwaite, again; “to-morrow I 
will set about it.” 

The deeper he looked at the matter, the more certain 
of success grew Peter. His spirits were naturally so elas- 
tic that even now, in the blasted autumn of his age, he 
could often compete with the springtime . gayety of other 
people. Enlivened by his brightening prospects, he began 
to caper about the kitchen like a hobgoblin, with the queer- 
est antics of his lean limbs and gesticulations of his 
starved features. Nay, in the exuberance of his feelings, 
he seized both of Tabitha’s hands and danced the old lady 
across the floor till the oddity of her rheumatic motions 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


435 


set him into a roar of laughter, which was echoed back 
from the rooms and chambers, as if Peter Goldthwaite 
were laughing in every one. Finally, he bounded upward,, 
almost out of sight, into the smoke that clouded the roof 
of the kitchen, and, alighting safely on the floor again, 
endeavored to resume his customary gravity. 

“ To-morrow, at sunrise,” he repeated, taking his lamp 
to retire to bed, “ I’ll see whether this treasure be hid in 
the wall of the garret.” 

“And, as we’re out of wood, Mr. Peter,” said Tabitha, 
puffing and panting with her late gymnastics, “as fast 
as you tear the house down I’ll make a fire with the 
pieces.” 

Gorgeous that night were the dreams of Peter Gold- 
thwaite. At one time he was turning a ponderous key 
in an iron door not unlike the door of a sepulchre, but 
which, being opened, disclosed a vault heaped up with 
gold coin as plentifully as golden corn in a granary. There 
were chased goblets, also, and tureens, salvers, dinner- 
dishes and dish-covers of gold or silver-gilt, besides chains 
and other jewels, incalculably rich, though tarnished with 
the damps of the vault; for, of all the wealth that was 
irrevocably lost to man, whether buried in the earth or 
sunken in the sea, Peter Goldthwaite had found it in this 
one treasure-place. Anon he had returned to the old house 
as poor as ever, and was received at the door by the gaunt 
and grilled figure of a man whom he might have mistaken 
for himself, only that his garments were of a much elder 
fashion. But the house, without losing its former aspect, 
had been changed into a palact of the precious metals. 
The floors, walls and ceilings were of burnished silver; the 
doors, the window-frames, the cornices, the balustrades 


436 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and the steps of the staircase of pure gold; and silver 
with gold bottoms, were the chairs; and gold, standing on 
silver legs, the high chests of drawers; and silver the bed- 
steads, with blankets of woven gold and sheets of silver 
tissue. The house had evidently been transmuted by a 
single touch, for it retained all the marks that Peter re- 
membered, but in gold or silver instead of wood, and the 
initials of his name — which when a boy he had cut in 
the wooden door-post — remained as deep in the pillar of 
gold. A happy man would have been Peter Goldthwaite 
except for a certain ocular deception which, whenever he 
glanced backward, caused the house to darken from its 
glittering magnificence into the sordid gloom of yesterday. 

Up betimes rose Peter, seized an axe, hammer and saw, 
which he had placed by his bedside, and hied him to the 
garret. It was but scantily lighted up as yet by the 
frosty fragments of a sunbeam which began to glimmer 
through the almost opaque bull-eyes of the window. A 
moralizer might find abundant themes for his speculative 
and impracticable wisdom in a garret. There is the limbo 
of departed fashions, aged trifles of a day, and whatever 
was valuable only to one generation of men, and which 
passed to the garret when that generation passed to the 
grave — not for safe-keeping, but to be out of the way. 
Peter saw piles of yellow and musty account-books in 
parchment covers, wherein creditors long dead and buried 
had written the names of dead and buried debtors in ink, 
now so faded that their moss-grown tombstones were 
more legible. He found old moth-eaten garments, all in 
rags and tatters, or Peter would have put them on. Here 
was a naked and rusty sword — not a sword of service, 
but a gentleman’s small French rapier — which had never 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


437 


left its scabbard till it lost it. Here were canes of twenty 
different sorts, but no gold-headed ones, and shoebuckles 
of various pattern and material, but not silver nor set with 
precious stones. Here was a large box full of shoes with 
high heels and peaked toes. Here, on a shelf, were a multi- 
tude of phials half filled with old apothecary’s stuff which, 
when the other half had done its business on Peter’s an- 
cestors, had been brought hither from the death-chamber. 
Here — not to give a longer inventory of articles that will 
never be put up at auction — was the fragment of a full- 
length looking-glass which by the dust and dimness of 
its surface made the picture of these old things look older 
than the reality. When Peter, not knowing that there 
was a mirror there, caught the faint traces of his own 
figure, he partly imagined that the former Peter Gold- 
thwaite had come back either to assist or impede his 
search for the hidden wealth. And at that moment a 
strange notion glimmered through his brain that he was 
the identical Peter who had concealed the gold, and ought 
to know whereabout it lay. This, however, he had unac- 
countably forgotten. 

“Well, Mr. Peter!” cried Tabitha, on the garret stairs, 
“ Have you torn the house down enough to heat the tea- 
kettle?” 

“Not yet, old Tabby,” answered Peter, “but that’s soon 
done, as you shall see.” With the word in his mouth, he 
uplifted the axe, and laid about him so vigorously that 
the dust flew, the boards crashed, and in a twinkling the 
old woman had an apron full of broken rubbish. 

“ We shall get our winter’s wood cheap,” quoth Tabitha. 

The good work being thus commenced, Peter beat down 
all before him, smiting and hewing at the joints and tim- 


43 S 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


bers, unclenching spike-nails, ripping and tearing away 
boards, with a tremendous racket from morning till night.' 
He took care, however, to leave the outside shell of the 
house untouched, so that the neighbors might not suspect 
what was going on. 

Never, in any of his vagaries, though each had made 
him happy while it lasted, had Peter been happier than 
now. Perhaps, after all, there was something in Peter 
Goldthwaite’s turn of mind which brought him an inward 
recompense for all tlie external evil that it caused. If lip 
were poor, ill-clad, even hungry and exposed, as it were, 
to be utterly annihilated by a precipice of impending ruin, 
yet only his body remained in these miserable circum- 
stances, while his aspiring soul enjoyed the sunshine of a 
bright futurity. It was his nature to be always young, 
and the tendency of his mode of life to keep him so. 
Gray hairs were nothing — no, nor wrinkles nor infirmity; 
he might look old, indeed, and be somewhat disagreeably 
connected with a gaunt old figure much the worse for 
wear, but the true, the essential Peter was a young man 
of high hopes just entering on the world. At the kindling 
of each new fire his burnt-out youth rose afresh from the 
old embers and ashes. It rose exulting now. Havi g 
lived thus long — not too long, but just. to the right age — 
a susceptible bachelor with warm and tender dreams, he 
resolved, so soon as the hidden gold should flash to light, 
to go a-wooing and win the love of the fairest maid in 
town. What heart could resist him? Happy Peter Gold- 
thwaite! 

Every evening — as Peter had long absented himself 
from his former lounging-places at insurance offices, news- 
rooms, and book-stores and as the honor of his company 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


439 


was seldom requested in' private circles — he and Tabitha 
used to sit down sociably by the kitchen hearth. This 
was always "heaped plentifully with the rubbish of his day’s 
labor. As the foundation of the fire there would be a 
goodly-sized back-log of red oak, which after being shel- 
tered from rain or damp above a century still hissed with 
the heat and distilled streams of water from each end, as 
if the tree had been cut down within a week or two. Next 
there were large sticks, sound, black and heavy, which had 
lost the principle of decay, and were indestructible except 
by fire, wherein they glowed like red-hot bars of iron. On 
this solid basis Tabitha would rear a lighter structure, 
composed of the splinters of door-panels, ornamented 
mouldings, and such quick combustibles, which caught like 
straw and threw a brilliant blaze high up the spacious 
flue, making its sooty sides visible almost to the chimney- 
top. Meantime, the gloom of the old kitchen would be 
chased out of the cobwebbed corners and away from the 
dusky cross-beams overhead, and driven nobody could 
tell whither, while Peter smiled like a gladsome man and 
Tabitha seemed a picture of comfortable age. All this, 
of course, was but an emblem of the bright fortune which 
the destruction of the house would shed upon its occu- 
pants. 

While the dry pine was flaming and crackling like an 
irregular discharge of fairy-musketry, Peter sat looking 
and listening in a pleasant state of excitement; but when 
the brief blaze and uproar were succeeded by the dark- 
red glow, the substantial heat and the deep singing sound 
which were to last throughout the evening, his humor 
became talkative. One night — the hundredth time — he 


440 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


teased Tabitha to tell him something new about his great- 
grand-uncle. 

“ You have been sitting in that chimney-corner fifty- 
five years, old Tabby, and must have heard many a tra- 
dition about him,” said Peter. “ Did not you tell me that 
when you first came to the house there was an old woman 
sitting where you sit now who had been housekeeper to 
the famous Peter Goldthwaite? ” 

“ So there was, Mr. Peter,” answered Tabitha, “ and 
she was near about a hundred years old. She used to say 
that she and old Peter Goldthwaite had often spent a 
sociable evening by the kitchen fire — pretty much as you 
and I are doing now, Mr. Peter.” 

“The old fellow must have resembled me in more points 
than one,” said Peter, complacently, “ or he never would 
have grown so rich. But methinks he might have invested 
the money better than he did. No interest! nothing but 
good security! and the house to be torn down to come 
at it! What made him hide it so snug, Tabby?” 

“Because he could not spend it,” said Tabitha, “for as 
often as he went to unlock the chest the Old Scratch came 
behind and caught his arm. The money, they say, was 
paid Peter out of his purse, and he wanted Peter to give 
him a deed of this house and land, which Peter swore he 
would not do.” 

“Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,” re- 
marked Peter. “ But this is all nonsense. Tabby; I don’t 
believe the story.” 

“Well, it may not be just the truth,” said Tabitha, “for 
some folks says that Peter did make over the house to the 
Old Scratch, and that’s the reason it has always been so 
unlucky to them that lived in it. And as soon as Peter 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE 


441 


had given him the deed the chest flew open, and Peter 
caught up a handful of the gold. But, lo and behold! 

! there was nothing in his fist but a parcel of old rags.” 

“ Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby ! ” cried Peter, 
in great wrath. “ They were as good golden guineas as 
ever bore the effigies of the king of England. It seems 
as if 1 could recollect the whole circumstance, and how I, 
or old Peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his 
hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. Old rags, 
indeed! ” 

But it was not an old woman’s legend that would dis- 
courage Peter Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among 
, pleasant dreams, and awoke at daylight with a joyous 
throb of the heart which few are fortunate enough to feel 
beyond their boyhood. Day after day he labored hard 
without wasting a moment except at meal times, when 
Tabitha summoned him to the pork and cabbage, or such 
other sustenance as she had picked up or Providence had 
sent them. Being a truly pious man, Peter never failed to 
ask a blessing — if the food were none of the best, then 
so much the more earnestly, as it was more needed — nor 
to return thanks, if the dinner had been scanty, yet for 
the good appetite which was better than a sick stomach 
at a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil, and in a 
moment was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old 
walls, though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the 
clatter which he raised in the midst of it. 

How enviable is the consciousness of being usefully em- 
ployed! Nothing troubled Peter, or nothing but those 
phantoms of the mind which seem like vagre recollec- 
tions, yet have also the aspect of presentiments. He often 
paused with his axe uplifted in the air, and said to himself, 


442 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Peter Goldthwaite, did you never strike this blow be- 
fore?” or “Peter, what need of tearing the whole house 
down? Think a little while, and you will remember where 
the gold is hidden.” Days and weeks passed on, however, 
without any remarkable discovery. Sometimes, indeed, a 
lean gray rat peeped forth at the lean gray man, wonder- 
ing what devil had got into the old house, which had 
always been so peaceable till now. And occasionally Peter 
sympathized with the sorrows of a female mouse who had 
brought five or six pretty, little, soft and delicate young 
ones into the world just in time to see them crushed by 
its ruin. But as yet no treasure. 

By this time, Peter, being as determined as fate and as 
diligent as time, had made an end with the uppermost 
regions and got down to the second story, where he was 
busy in one of the front chambers. It had formerly been 
the state bed-chamber, and was honored by tradition as 
the sleeping-apartment of Governor Dudley and many 
other eminent guests. The furniture was gone. There 
were remnants of faded and tattered paper-hangings, but 
larger spaces of bare wall ornamented with charcoal 
sketches, chiefly of people’s heads in profile. These being 
specimens of Peter’s youthful genius, it went more to his- 
heart to obliterate them than if they had been pictures on 
a church wall by Michael Angelo. One sketch, however, 
and that the best one, affected him differently. It repre- 
sented a ragged man partly supporting himself on a spade 
and bending his lean body over a hole in the earth, with 
one hand extended to grasp something that he had found. 
But close behind him, with a fiendish laugh on his features, 
appeared a figure with horns, a tufted tail arid a clover 
noof. 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE 


443 


| “Avaunt, Satan!” cried Peter. “ The man shall have 
j his gold.” Uplifting his axe, he hit the horned gentle- 
man such a blow on the head as not only demolished him, 
but the treasure-seeker also, and caused the whole scene 
to vanish like magic. Moreover, his axe broke quite 
Si through the plaster and lath's and discovered a cavity. 

“Mercy on us, Mr. Peter! Are you quarreling with 
the Old Scratch?” said Tabitha, who was seeking some 
fuel to put under the dinner pot. 

Without answering the old woman, Peter broke down 
a further space of the wall, and laid open a small closet 
or cupboard on one side of the fireplace, about breast 
| high from the ground. It contained nothing but a brass 
lamp covered with verdigris, and a dusty piece of parch- 
; ment. While Peter inspected the latter, Tabitha seized 
f the lamp and began to rub it with her apron. 

“There is no use in rubbing it, Tabitha,” said Peter. 
“ It is not Aladdin’s lamp, though I take it to be a token 
of as much luck. Look here, Tabby!” 

Tabitha took the parchment and held it close to her 
nose, which was -saddled with a pair of iron-bound spec- 
j tacles. But no sooner had she begun to puzzle over it 
than she burst into a chuckling laugh, holding both her hands 
against her sides. 

“ You can’t make a fool of the old woman,” cried she. 
“ This is your own handwriting, Mr. Peter, the same as 
in the letter you sent me from Mexico.” 

“ There is certainly a considerable resemblance,” said 
Peter, again examining the parchment. “ But you know 
yourself, Tabby, that this closet must have been plastered 
up before you came to the house or I came into the world. 
No; this is old Peter Goldthwaite’s writing. These col- 


444 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


umns of pounds, shillings and pence are his figures, de- 
noting the amount of the treasure, and this, at the bot- 
tom, is doubtless a reference to the place of concealment. 
But the ink has either faded or peeled off, so that it is 
absolutely illegible. What a pity! ” 

“Well, this lamp is as good- as new. That’s some com- 
fort,” said Tabitha. 

“A lamp!” thought Peter. “That indicates light on 
my researches.’” 

For the present Peter felt more inclined to ponder on 
this discovery than to resume his labors. After Tabitha 
had gone down stairs he stood pouring over the parch- 
ment at one of the front windows, which was so ob- 
scured with dust that the sun could barely throw an 
uncertain shadow of the casement across the floor. 
Peter forced it open and looked out upon the great street 
of the town, while the sun looked in at his old house. 
The air, though mild, and even warm, thrilled Peter as 
with a dash of water. 

It was the first day of the January thaw. The snow 
lay deep upon the housetops, but was rapidly dissolving 
into millions of water-drops, which sparkled downward 
through the sunshine with the noise of a summer shower 
beneath the eaves. Along the street the trodden snow 
was as hard and solid as a pavement of white marble, and 
had not yet grown moist in the spring-like temperature. 
But when Peter thrust forth his head he saw that the 
inhabitants, if not the town, were already thawed out by 
this warm day, after two or three weeks of winter weather. 
It gladdened him — a gladness with a sigh breathing 
through it — to see the stream of ladies gliding along 
the slippery sidewalks with their red cheeks set off by 


PETER GOLDTHWAITE’S TREASURE 


445 


quilted hoods, boas and sable capes like roses amidst a 
new kind of foliage. The sleigh-bells jingled to and fro 
continually, sometimes announcing the arrival of a sleigh 
from Vermont laden with the frozen bodies of porkers 
or sheep, and perhaps a deer or two; sometimes, of a 
regular marketman with chickens, geese and turkeys, 
comprising the whole colony of a barnyard; and some- 
times of a farmer and his d/\me who had come to town 
partly for the ride, partly to go a-shopping and partly for 
the sale of some eggs and butter. This couple rode in 
an old-fashioned square sleigh which had served them 
twenty winters and stood twenty summers in the sun be- 
side their door. Now a gentleman and a lady skimmed 
the snow in an elegant car shaped somewhat like a 
cockleshell; now a stage sleigh with its cloth curtains 
thrust aside to admit the sun dashed rapidly down the 
street, whirling in and out among the vehicles that ob- 
structed its passage; now came round a corner the simili- 
tude of Noah’s ark on runners, being an immense open 
sleigh with seats for fifty people and drawn by a dozen 
horses. This spacious receptacle was populous with 
merry maids and merry bachelors, merry girls and boys, 
and merry old folks, all alive with fun and grinning to 
the full width of their mouths. They kept up a buzz of 
babbling voices and low laughter, and sometimes burst 
into a deep, joyous shout which the spectators answered 
with three cheers, while a gang of roguish boys let drive 
their snowballs right among the pleasure party. The 
sleigh passed on, and when concealed by a bend of the 
street was still audible by a distant cry of merriment. 

Never had Peter beheld a livelier scene than was con- 
stituted by all these accessories — the bright suji, the 


446 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


flashing water-drops, the gleaming snow, the cheerful 
multitude, the variety of rapid vehicles and the jingle- 1 
jangle of merry bells which made the heart dance to their 
music. Nothing dismal was to be seen except that peaked 
piece of antiquity Peter Goldthwaite’s house, which might 
well look sad externally, since such a terrible consump- 
tion was preying on its insides. And Peter’s gaunt fig- 
ure, half visible in the projecting second story, was •> 
worthy of his house. 

“Peter! How goes it, friend Peter?” cried a voice , 
across the stfeet as Peter was drawing in his head. 
“Look out here, Peter!” 

Peter looked, and saw his old partner, Mr. John Brown, j 
on the opposite sidewalk, portly and comfortable, with his j 
furred cloak thrown open, disclosing a handsome sur- i 
tout beneath. His voice had directed the attention of ' 
the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite’s window, and to ; 
the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it. 

4< I say, Peter” cried Mr. Brown, again; “what the 
devil are you about there, that I hear such a racket when- 
ever I pass by? You are repairing the old house, I sup- 
pose, making a new one of it? Eh?” 

“ Too late for that I am afraid, Mr. Brown,” replied 
Peter. “ If I make it new, it will be new inside and out. 
from the cellar upward.” 

“Had not you better let me take the job?” said Mr. 
Brown, significantly. 

“Not yet,” answered Peter, hastily shutting the win-1 
dow; for ever since he had been in search of the treas-f 
ure he hated to have people stare at him. 

As be drew hark, ashamed of his outward poverty. 

-x proud of the secret wealth witnin his grasp, a haughty 


PETER GOLDTH WAITES TREASURE 


44 ? 


smile shone out on Peter’s visage with precisely the ef- 
fect of the dim sunbeams in the squalid chamber. He 
endeavored to assume such a mien as his ancestor had 
probably worn when he gloried in the building of a 
strong house for a home to many generations of his pos- 
terity. But the chamber was very dark to his snow- 
dazzled eyes, and very dismal, too, in contrast with the 
living scene that he had just looked upon. His brief 
glimpse into the street had given him a forcible impres- 
sion of the manner in which the world kept itself cheer- 
ful and prosperous by social pleasures and an inter- 
course of business, while he in seclusion was pursuing 
an object that might possibly be a phantasm by a method 
which most people would call madness. It is one great 
advantage of a gregarious mode of life that each person 
rectifies his mind by other minds and squares his con- 
duct to that of his neighbors, so as seldom to be lost in 
eccentricity. Peter Goldthwaite had exposed himself to 
this influence by merely looking out of the window. 
For a while he doubted whether there were any hidden 
chests of gold, and in that case whether it was so ex- 
ceedingly wise to tear the house down only to be con- 
vinced of its non-existence. 

But this was momentary. Peter the Destroyer, re- 
sumed the task which Fate had assigned him, nor fal- 
tered again till it was accomplished. In the course of 
his search he met with many things that are usually * 
found in the ruins of an old house, and also with some 
that are not. What seemed most to the purpose was 
a rusty key which had been thrust into a chink of 
the wall, with a wooden label appended to the handle, 
bearing the initials “ P. G.” Another singular discov- 


448 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


ery was that of a bottle of wine walled up in an old oven. 
A tradition ran in the family that Peter’s grandfather, a 
jovial officer in the old French war, had set aside many 
dozens of the precious liquor for the benefit of topers 
then unborn. Peter needed no cordial to sustain his 
hopes, and therefore kept the wine to gladden his suc- 
cess. Many half-pence did he pick up that had been lost 
through the cracks of the floor, and some few Spanish 
coins, and the half of a broken six-pence which had doubt- 
less been a love token. There was likewise a silver coro- 
nation medal of George III. But old Peter Goldthwaite’s 
strong box fled from one dark corner to another, or 
otherwise eluded the second Peter’s clutches till, should 
he seek much farther, he must burrow into the earth. 

We will not follow him in his triumphant progress step 
by step. Suffice it that Peter worked like a steam en- 
gine and finished in that one winter the job which all 
the former inhabitants of the house, with time? and the ele- 
ments to aid them, had only half done in. a century. Ex- 
cept the kitchen, every room and chamber was now 
gutted. The house was nothing but a shell, the appari- 
tion of a house, as unreal as the painted edifices of a 
theatre. It. was like the perfect rind of a great cheese 
in which a mouse had dwelt and nibbled till it was a 
cheese no more. And Peter was the mouse. 

What Peter had torn down, Tabitha had burnt up, 
for she wisely considered that without a house they 
should need no wood to warm it, and therefore economy 
was nonsense. Thus the whole house might be said to 
have dissolved in smoke and flown up among the cloucfs 
.through the great black flue of the kitchen chimney. It 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE'S TREASURE 


449 


was an admirable parallel to the feat of the man who 
jumped down his own throat. 

On the night between the last day of winter and the 
first day of spring every chink and cranny had been ran- 
sacked except within the precincts of the kitchen. This 
fated evening was an ugly one. A snow storm had set in 
some hours before, and was still driven and tossed about 
the atmosphere by a real hurricane which fought against 
the house as if the prince of the air in person, were put- 
ting the final stroke to Peter’s labors. The framework 
being so much weakened and the inward props removed, 
it would have been no marvel if in some stronger wrestle 
of the blast the rotten walls of the edifice and all the 
peaked roofs had come crashing down upon the owner’s 
head. He, however,' was careless of the peril, but as 
wild and restless as the night itself, or as the flame that 
quivered up the chimney at each roar of the tempestu- 
ous wind. 

“ The wine, Tabitha,” he cried — “ my grandfather’s 
rich old wine! We will drink it now.” 

Tabitha arose from her smoke-blackened bench in the 
chimney corner and placed the bottle before Peter, close 
beside the old brass lamp which had likewise been the 
prize of his researches. Peter held it before his eyes, 
and, looking through the liquid medium, beheld the 
kitchen illuminated with a golden glory which also en- 
veloped Tabitha, and gilded her silver hair and converted 
her mean garments into robes of queenly splendor. It 
reminded him of his golden dream. 

“ Mr. Peter,” remarked Tabitha, “ must the wine be 
drunk before the money is found ? ” 

“The money is found L” exclaimed Peter with a sort 


450 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


of fierceness. “The chest is within my reach; I will not 
sleep till I have turned this key in the rusty lock. But 
first of all let us drink.” 

There being no corkscrew in the house, he smote the 
neck of the bottle with old Peter Goldthwaite’s rusty 
key, and decapitated the sealed cork at a single blow. 
He then filled two little china tea cups which Tabitha 
had brought from the cupboard. So clear and brilliant 
was this aged wine that it shone within the cups and ren- 
dered the sprig of Scarlet flowers in the bottom of each 
more distinctly visible than when there had been no wine 
there. Its rich and delicate perfume wasted itself round 
the kitchen. 

“Drink, Tabitha!” cried Peter. “Blessings on the hon- 
est old fellow who set aside this good liquor for you and 
me! And here’s to Peter Goldthwaite’s memory!” 

“And good cause have we to remember him,” quoth 
Tabitha as she drank. 

How many years, and through what changes of for- 
tune and various calamity, had that bottle hoarded up its 
effervescent joy, to be quaffed at last by two such boon 
companions! A portion of the happiness of a former 
age had been kept for them, and was now set free in a 
crowd of rejoicing visions to sport amid the storm and 
desolation of the present time. Until they have finished 
the bottle we must turn our eyes elsewhere. 

It so chanced that on this stormy night Mr. John Brown 
found himself ill at ease in his wire-cushioned arm-chair 
by the glowing grate of anthracite which heated his 
handsome parlor. He was naturally a good sort of a 
man, and kind and pitiful whenever the misfortunes of 
others happened to reach his heart through the padded 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


451 


vest of his own prosperity. This evening he had thought 
much about his old partner, Peter Goldthwaite, his strange 
vagaries and continual ill luck, the poverty of his dwell- 
ing at Mr. Brown’s last visit, and Peter’s crazed and hag- 
gard aspect when he had talked with him at the window. 

“Poor fellow!” thought Mr. John Brown. “Poor 
crack-brained Peter Goldthwaite! For old acquaintance* 
sake I ought to have taken care that he was comfortable 
this rough winter.” These feelings grew so powerful 
that, in spite of the inclement weather, he resolved to 
visit Peter Goldthwaite immediately. 

The strength of the impulse was really singular. Every 
shriek of the blast seemed a summons, or would have 
seemed so had Mr. Brown been accustomed to hear the 
echoes of his own fancy in the wind. Much amazed at 
such active benevolence, he huddled himself in his 
cloak, muffled his throat and ears in comforters and hand 
kerchiefs, and, thus fortified, bade defiance to the tempest,. 
But the powers of the air had rather the best of the bat- 
tle. Mr. Brown was just weathering the corner by' Peter 
Goldthwaite’s house when the hurricane caught him off 
his feet, tossed him face downward into a snowbank and 
proceeded to bury his protuberant part beneath fresh 
drifts. There seemed little hope of his reappearance ear- 
lier than the next thaw. At the same moment his hat was 
snatched away and whirled aloft into some far distant 
region whence no tidings have as yet returned. 

Nevertheless Mr. Brown contrived to burrow a pas- 
sage through the snowdrift, and with his bare head bent 
against the storm, floundered onward to Peter’s door. 
There was such a creaking and groaning and rattling, 
and such an ominous shaking, throughout the crazy edi- 


452 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


flee that the loudest rap would have been inaudible to 
those within. He therefore entered without ceremony, 
and groped his way to the kitchen. His intrusion even 
there was unnoticed. Peter and Tabitha stood with their 
backs to the door, stooping over a large chest which ap- 
parently they had just dragged from a cavity or con- 
cealed closet on the left side of the chimney. By the 
lamp in the old woman’s hand Mr. Brown saw that the 
chest was barred and clamped with iron, strengthened 
with iron plates and studded with iron nails, so as to be 
a fit receptacle in which the wealth of one century might 
be hoarded up for the wants of another. 

Peter Goldthwaite was inserting a key into the lock. 

“ Oh, Tabitha,” cried he, with tremulous rapture, “ how 
shall I endure the effulgence? The gold! — the bright, 
bright gold! Methinks I can remember my last glance at it 
just as the iron plated lid fell down. And ever since, be- 
ing seventy tears, it has been blazing in secret and gath- 
ering Its splendor against this glorious moment. It will 
flash upon us like the noonday sun.” 

“Then shade your eyes, Mr. Peter!” said Tabitha, with 
somewhat less patience than usual. “ But, for mercy’s 
sake, do turn the key!” 

And with a strong effort of both hands Peter did force 
the rusty key through the intricacies of the rusty lock. 
Mr. Brown, in the meantime, had drawn near and thrust 
his eager visage between those of the other two at the 
instant that Peter threw up the lid. No sudden blaze 
illuminated the kitchen. 

“What’s here?” exclaimed Tabitha, adjusting her spec- 
tacles and holding the lamp over the open chest. “ Old 
Peter Goldthwaite’s hoard of old rags!” 


PETER GOLDTH WAITE’S TREASURE 


45a 


“ Pretty much so, Tabby,” said Mr. Brown, lifting a 
handful of the treasure. 

Oh, what a ghost of dead and buried wealth had Peter 
Goldthwaite raised to scare himself out of his scanty 
wits withal! Here was the semblance of an incalculable 
sum, enough to purchase the whole town and build- every 
street anew, but which, vast as it was, no sane man 
would have given a solid sixpence for. What, then, in 
sober earnest, were the delusive treasures of the chest? 
Why, here were old provincial bills of credit and treasury 
notes and bills of land banks, and all other bubbles of the 
sort, from the first issue — above a century and a half 
ago — -down nearly to the Revolution. Bills of a thou- 
sand pounds were intermixed with parchment pennies, 
and worth no more than they. 

“And this, then, is old Peter Goldthwaite’s treasure!” 
said John Brown. “Your namesake, Peter, was some- 
thing like yourself; and when the provincial currency had 
depreciated fifty or seventy-five per cent., he bought it 
up in expectation of a rise. I have heard my grand- 
father say that old Peter gave his father a mortgage of 
this very house and land to raise cash for his silly project. 
But the currency kept sinking till nobody would take it 
as a gift, and there was old Peter Goldthwaite, like Peter 
the second, with thousands in his strong box and hardly 
a coat to his back. He went mad upon the strength of 
it. But never mind, Peter; it is just the sort of capital for 
building castles in the air.” 

“The house will be down about our ears,” cried Ta- 
bitha as the wind shook it with increasing violence. 

“ Let it fall,” said Peter, folding his arms, as he seated 
himself upon the chest. 


454 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ No, no, my old friend Peter!” said John Brown. 
“ 1 have house room for you and Tabby, and a safe vault 
for the chest of treasure. To-morrow we will try to 
come to an agreement about the sale of this old house; 
real estate is well up, and I could afford you a pretty 
handsome price.” 

“And I,” observed Peter Goldthwaite, with reviving spir- 
its, “ have a plan for laying out the cash to great advan- 
tage.” 

“ Why, as to that,” muttered John Brown to himself, 
“ we must apply to the next court for a guardian to take 
care of the solid cash; and if Peter insists upon speculat- 
ing, he may do it to his heart’s content with old Peter 
Goidthwaite’s treasure.” 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 

Passing a summer several years since at Edgartown, 
on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, I became acquainted 
with a certain carver of tombstones who had traveled 
and voyaged thither from the interior of Massachusetts 
in search of professional employment. The speculation 
had turned out so successful that my friend expected to 
transmute slate and marble into silver and gold to the 
amount of at least a thousand dollars during the few 
months of his sojourn at Nantucket and the Vineyard. 
The secluded life and the simple and primitive spirit which 
still characterize the inhabitants of those islands, espe- 
cially of Martha’s Vineyard insure their dead friends a 
longer and dearer remembrance than the daily novelty 
and revolving bustle of the world can elsewhere afford 
to beings of the past. Yet, while every family is anxious 
to erect a memorial to its departed members, the un- 
tainted breath of Ocean bestows such health and length 
of days upon the people of the isles as would cause a 
melancholy dearth of business to a resident artist in that 
line. His own monument, recording his decease by star- 
vation, would probably be an early specimen of his skill. 
Gravestones, therefore, have generally been an article of 
imported merchandise. 

In my walks through the burial ground of Edgartown 
— where the dead have lain so long that the soil once en- 

455 


456 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


riched by their decay, has returned to its original bar- 
renness — in that ancient burial ground I noticed much 
variety of monumental sculpture. The elder stones, dated 
a century back or more, have borders elaborately carved 
with flowers, and are adorned with a multiplicity of 
death’s-heads, crossbones, scythes, hour-glasses, and other 
lugubrious emblems of mortality, with here and there a 
winged cherub to direct the mourner’s spirit upward. 
These productions of Gothic taste must have been quite 
beyond the colonial skill of the day, and were probably 
carved in London and brought across the ocean to com- 
memorate the defunct worthies of this lonely isle. The 
more recent monuments are mere slabs of slate in the 
ordinary style, without any superfluous flourishes to set 
off the bald inscriptions. But others — and those far 
the most impressive, both to my taste and feelings — • 
were roughly hewn from the gray rocks of the island, 
evidently by the unskilled hands of surviving friends and 
relatives. On some there were merely the initials of a 
name; some were inscribed with misspelt prose or rhyme, 
in deep letters, which the moss and wintry rain of many 
years had not been able to obliterate. These were graves 
where loved ones slept. It is an old theme of satire, the 
falsehood and vanity of monumental eulogies; but when 
affection and sorrow grave the letters with their own pain- 
ful labor, then we may be sure that they copy from the 
record on their hearts. 

My acquaintance the sculptor — he may share that title 
with Greenough, since the dauber of signs is a painter 
as well as Raphael — had found a ready market for all 
his blank slabs of marble, and full occupation in lettering 
and ornamenting them. He was an elderly man, a de- 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 


457 


scendant of the old Puritan family of Wigglesworth, with 
a certain simplicity and singleness both of heart and mind 
which, methinks, is more rarely found among us Yankees 
than in any other community of people. In spite of his 
gray head and wrinkled brow, he was quite like a child ip 
all matters save what had some reference to his own busi- 
ness; he seemed, unless my fancy misled me, to view man- 
kind in no other relation than as people in want of tomb- 
stones, and his literary attainments evidently compre- 
hended very little either of prose or poetry which had not 
at one time or other been inscribed on slate or marble. 
His sole task and office among the immortal pilgrims of 
the tomb — the duty for which Providence had sent the 
old man into the world, as it were with a chisel in his 
hand — was to label the dead bodies, lest their names 
should be forgotten at the resurrection. Yet he had not 
failed, within a narrow scope, to gather a few sprigs of 
earthly, and more than earthly, wisdom — the harvest of 
many a grave. And, lugubrious as his calling might ap- 
pear, ne was as cheerful an old soul as health and integrity 
and lack of care could make him, and used to set to work 
upon one sorrowful inscription or another with that sort 
of spirit which impels a man to sing at his labor. On the 
whole, I found Mr. Wigglesworth an entertaining, and 
often instructive, if not an interesting, character; and, 
partly for the charm of his society, and still more because ! 
his work has an invariable attraction for “ man that is born 
of woman,” I was accustomed to spend some hours a day 
at his workshop. The quaintness of his remarks, and their 
not infrequent truth — a truth condensed and pointed by 
the limited sphere of his view — gave a raciness to his talk 


458 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


which mere worldliness and general cultivation would at 
once have destroyed. 

Sometimes we would discuss the respective merits of the 
various qualities of marble, numerous slabs of which were 
restirig against the walls of the shop, or sometimes an 
hour or two would pass quietly without a word on either 
side, while I watched how neatly his chisel struck out 
letter after letter of the names of the Nortons, the May- 
hews, the Luces, the Daggets, and other immemorial fami- 
lies of the Vineyard. Often with an artist’s pride the good 
old sculptor would speak of favorite productions of his 
skill which were scattered throughout the village grave- 
yards of New England. But my chief and most instructive 
amusement was to witness his interviews with his custom- 
ers, who held interminable consultations about the form 
and fashion of the desired monuments, the buried excel- 
lence to be commemorated, the anguish to be expressed, 
and, finally, the lowest price in dollars and cents for which 
a marble transcript of their feelings might be obtained. 
Really, my mind received many fresh ideas which per- 
haps may remain in it even longer than Mr. Wiggles- 
worth’s hardest marble will retain the deepest strokes of 
his chisel. 

An elderly lady came to bespeak a monument for her 
first love, who had been killed by a whale in the Pacific 
Ocean no less than forty years before. It was singular 
that so strong an impression of early feeling should have 
survived through the changes of her subsequent life, in the 
course of which she had been a wife and a mother, and, so 
far as I could judge, a comfortable and happy woman. 
Reflecting within myself, it appeared to me that this life- 
long sorrow — as, in all good faith, she deemed it — was 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 


459 


one of the most fortunate circumstances of her history. 
It had given an ideality to her mind; it had kept her purer 
and less earthly than she would otherwise have been by 
drawing a portion of her sympathies apart from earth. 
Amid the throng of enjoyments and the pressure of worldly 
care and all the warm materialism of this life she had 
communed with a vision, and had been the better for such 
intercourse. Faithful to the husband of her maturity, and 
loving him with a far more real affection than she ever 
could have felt for this dream of her girlhood, there had 
still been an imaginative faith to the ocean-buried; so that 
an ordinary character had thus been elevated and refined. 
Her sighs had been the breath of Heaven to her soul. The 
good lady earnestly desired that the proposed monument 
should be ornamented with a carved border of marine 
plants intertwined with twisted sea-shells, such as were 
probably waving over her lover’s skeleton or strewn around 
it in the far depths of the Pacific. But, Mr. Wiggles- 
worth’s chisel being inadequate to the task, she was forced 
to content herself with a rose hanging its head from a 
broken stem. 

After her departure I remarked that the symbol was 
none of the most apt. 

“ And yet,” said my friend the sculptor, embodying in 
this image the thoughts that had been passing through my 
own mind, “ that broken rose has shed its sweet smell 
through forty years of the good woman’s life.” 

It was seldom that I could find such pleasant food for 
contemplation as in the above instance. None of the ap- 
plicants, I think, affected me more disagreeably than an 
old man who came, with his fourth wife hanging on his 
arm, to bespeak gravestones for the three former occu- 


460 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


pants of his marriage-bed. I watched with some anxiety 
to see whether his remembrance of either were more affec- 
tionate than of the other two, but could discover no symp- 
tom of the kind. The three monuments were all to be of 
the same material and form, and each decorated in bas- 
relief with two weeping willows, one of these sympathetic 
trees* bending over its fellow, which was to be broken in 
the midst and rest upon a sepulchral urn. This, indeed, 
was Mr. Wigglesworth’s standing emblem of conjugal be- 
reavement. I shuddered at the gray polygamist who had 
so utterly lost the holy sense of individuality in wedlock 
that methought he was fain to reckon upon his fingers 
how many women who had once slept by his side were 
now sleeping in their graves. There was even — if I 
wrong him, it is no great matter — a glance sidelong at his 
living spouse, as if he were inclined to drive a thriftier 
bargain by bespeaking four gravestones in a lot. 

I was better pleased with a rough old whaling-captain 
who gave directions for a broad marble slab divided into 
two compartments, one of which was to contain an epitaph 
on his deceased wife and the other to be left vacant till 
death should engrave his own name there. As is fre- 
quently the case among tke whalers of Martha’s Vineyard, 
so much of this storm-beaten widower’s life had been 
tossed away on distant seas that out of twenty years of 
matrimony he had spent scarce three, and those at scat- 
tered intervals, beneath his own roof. Thus the wife of 
his youth, though she died in his and her declining age 
retained the bridal dewdrops fresh around her memory. 

My observations gave me the idea, and Mr. Wiggles- 
worth confirmed it, that husbands were more faithful in 
setting up memorials to their dead wives than widows to 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 


461 


their dead husbands. I was not ill-natured enough to 
fancy that women less than men feel so sure of their own 
constancy as to be willing to give a pledge of it in marble. 
It is more probably the fact that, while men are able to re- 
flect upon their lost companions as remembrances apart 
from themselves, women, on the other hand, are conscious 
that a portion of their being has gone with the departed 
whithersoever he has gone. Soul clings to soul, the living 
dust has a sympathy with the dust of the grave; and by 
the very strength of that sympathy the wife of the dead 
shrinks the more sensitively from reminding the world of 
its existence. The link is already strong enough; it needs 
no visible symbol. And, though a shadow walks ever by 
her side and the touch of a chill hand is on her bosom, 
3'et life, and perchance its natural yearnings, may still be 
warm within her and inspire her with new hopes of happi- 
ness. Then would she mark out the grave the scent of 
which would be perceptible on the pillow of the second 
bridal? No, but rather level its green mound with the 
surrounding earth, as if, when she dug up again her buried 
heart, the spot had ceased to be a grave. 

Yet, in spite of these sentimentalities, I was prodigiously 
amused by an incident of which I had not the good- 
fortune to be a witness, but which Mr. Wigglesworth re- 
lated with considerable humor. A gentlewoman of the 
town, receiving news of her husband’s loss at sea, had 
bespoken a handsome slab of marble, and came daily to 
watch the progress of my friend’s chisel. One afternoon, 
when the good lady and the sculptor were in the very midst 
of the epitaph — which the departed spirit might have 
been greatly comforted to read — who should walk into 
fhe workshop but the deceased himself in substance as well 


462 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


as spirit! He had been picked up at sea, and stood in no 
present need of tombstone or epitaph. 

“And how,” inquired I, “ did his wife bear the shock of 
joyful surprise?” 

“ Why,” said the old man, deepening the grin of a 
death’s-head on which his chisel was just then employed, 
“I really felt for the poor woman; it was one of my best 
pieces of marble — and to be thrown away on a living 
man!” 

A comely woman with a pretty rosebud of a daughter 
came to select a gravestone for a twin-daughter, who had 
died a month before. I was impressed with the different 
nature of their feelings for the dead. The mother was 
calm and wofully resigned, fully conscious of her loss, as 
of a treasure which she had not always possessed, and 
therefore had been aware that it might be taken from her; 
but the daughter evidently had no real knowledge of what 
Death’s doings were. Her thoughts knew, but not her 
heart. It seemed to me that by the print and pressure 
which the dead sister had left upon the survivor’s spirit 
her feelings were almost the same as if she still stood side 
by side and arm in arm with the departed, looking at the 
slabs of marble, and once or twice she glanced around with 
a sunny smile, which, as its sister-smile had faded forever, 
soon grew confusedly overshadowed. Perchance her con- 
sciousness was truer than her reflection; perchance her 
dead sister was a closer companion than in life. 

The mother and daughter talked a long while with Mr. 
Wigglesworth about a suitable epitaph, and finally chose 
an ordinary verse of ill-matched rhymes which had already 
been inscribed upon innumerable tombstones. But when 
we ridicule the triteness of monumental verses, we forget 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 


463 


that Sorrow reads far deeper in them than we cam and 
finds a profound and individual purport in what seen*.. te 
vagi’? and inexpressive unless interpreted by her. She 
makes the epitaph anew, though the selfsame words may 
. have served for a thousand graves. 

“And yet,” said I afterward to Mr. Wigglesworth, “ they 
might have made a better choice than this. While you 
were discussing the subject I was struck by at least a dozen 
simple and natural expressions from the lips of both 
mother and daughter. One of these would have formed 
an inscription equally original and appropriate.” 

“ No, no ! ” replied the sculptor, shaking his head ; “ there 
is a good deal of comfort to be gathered from these little 
old scraps of poetry, and so I always recommend them in 
preference to any new-fangled ones. And somehow they 
seem to stretch to suit a great grief and shrink to fit a small 
one.” 

It was not seldom that ludicrous images were excited 
by what took place between Mr. Wigglesworth and his 
customers. A shrewd gentlewoman who kept a tavern 
in the town was anxious to obtain two or three grave- 
stones for the deceased members of her family, and to pay 
for these solemn commodities by taking the sculptor to 
board. Hereupon a fantasy arose in my mind of good 
Mr. Wigglesworth sitting down to dinner at a broad, flat 
tombstone, carving one of his own plump little marble 
cherubs, gnawing a pair of crossbones and drinking out of 
a hollow death’s-head or perhaps a lachrymatory vase or 
sepulchral urn, while his hostess’s dead children waited on 
him at the ghastly banquet. On communicating this non- 
sensical picture to the old man he laughed heartily and 
pronounced my humor to be of the right sort. 


464 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ I have lived at such a table all my days,” said he, “ and 
eaten no small quantity of slate and marble.” 

“ Hard fare;” rejoined I, smiling, “ but you seem to have 
found it excellent of digestion, too.” 

A man of fifty or thereabouts with a harsh, unpleasant 
countenance ordered a stone for the grave of his bitter 
enemy, with whom he had waged warfare half a lifetime, 
to their mutual misery and ruin. The secret of this phe- 
nomenon was that hatred had become the sustenance and 
enjoyment of the poor wretch’s soul; it had supplied the 
place of all kindly affections; it had been really a bond of 
sympathy between himself and the man who shared the 
passion; and when its object died, the unappeasable foe was 
the only mourner for the dead. He expressed a purpose 
of being buried side by side with his enemy. 

“ I doubt whether their dust will mingle,” remarked the 
old sculptor to me; for often there was an earthliness in his 
conceptions. * 

“ Oh, yes,” replied I, who had mused long upon the 
incident; “and when they rise again, these bitter foes may 
find themselves dear friends. Methinks what they mis- 
took for hatred was but love under a mask.” 

A gentleman of antiquarian propensities provided a me- 
morial for an Indian of Chabbiquidick — one of the few 
of , untainted blood remaining in that region, and said to 
be a hereditary chieftain descended from the sachem who 
welcomed Governor Mayhew to the Vineyard. Mr. Wig- 
glesworth exerted his best skill to carve a broken bow 
and scattered sheaf of arrows in memory of the hunters 
and warriors whose race was ended here, but he likewise 
sculptured a cherub, to denote that the poor Indian had 
shared the Christian’s hope of immortality. 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 


465 


” Why,” observed I, taking a perverse view of the 
winged boy and the bow and arrows, “ it looks more like 
Cupid’s tomb than an Indian chief’s.” 

“ You talk nonsense,” said the sculptor, with the offended 
pride of art. He then added with his usual good-nature, 
“ How can Cupid die when there are such pretty maidens 
in the Vineyard?” 

“Very true,” answered I; and for the rest of the day 
I thought of other matters than tombstones. 

At our next meeting I found him chiselling an open 
book upon a marble headstone, and concluded that it was 
meant to express the erudition of some black-letter cler- 
gyman of the Cotton Mather school. It turned out, how- 
ever, to be emblematical of the scriptural knowledge of 
an old woman who had never read anything but her Bible, 
and the monument was a tribute to her piety and good 
works from the orthodox church of which she had been a 
member. In strange contrast with this Christian woman’s 
memorial was that of an infidel whose gravestone, by his 
own direction, bore an avowal of his belief that the spirit 
within him would be extinguished like a flame, and that 
the nothingness whence he sprang would receive him 
again. 

Mr. Wigglesworth consulted me as to the propriety of 
enabling a dead man’s dust to utter this dreadful creed. 

“If I thought,” said he, “that -a single mortal would 
read the inscription without a shudder, my chisel should 
never cut a letter of it. But when the grave speaks such 
falsehoods, the soul of man will know the truth by its own 
horror.” 

“ So it will,” said I, struck by the idea. “ The poor infi- 
del may strive to preach blasphemies from his grave, but 


466 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


it will only be another method of impressing the soul with 
a consciousness of immortality.” 

There was an old man by the name of Norton, noted 
throughout the island for his great wealth, which he had 
accumulated by. the exercise of strong and shrewd faculties 
combined with a most penurious disposition. This 
wretched miser conscious that he had not a friend to be 
mindful of him in his grave, had himself taken the need- 
ful precautions for posthumous remembrance by bespeak- 
ing an immense slab of white marble with a long epitaph 
in raised letters, the whole to be as magnificent as Mr. 
Wigglesworth’s skill could make it. There was some- 
thing very characteristic in this contrivance to have his 
money’s worth even from his own tombstone, which, in- 
deed, afforded him more enjoyment in the few months 
that he lived thereafter than it probably will in a whole 
century, now that it is laid over his bones. 

This incident reminds me of a young girl — a pale, slen- 
der, feeble creature, most unlike the other rosy and health- 
ful damsels of the Vineyard, amid whose brightness she 
was fading away. Day after day did the poor maiden 
come to the sculptor’s shop and pass from one piece of 
marble to another, till at last she penciled her name upon 
a slender slab which, I think, was of a more spotless white 
than all the rest. I saw her no more, but soon afterward 
found Mr. Wigglesworth cutting her virgin-name into the 
stone which she had chosen. 

“She is dead, poor girl!” said he, interrupting the tune 
which he was whistling, “and she chose a good piece of 
stuff for her headstone. Now, which of these slabs would 
you like best to see your own name upon?” 

“Why, to tell you the truth, my good Mr. Wiggles- 


CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 


467 


worth,” replied I, after a moment’s pause, for the abrupt- 
ness of the question had somewhat startled me — “to be 
quite sincere with you, I care little or nothing about a 
stone for my own grave, and am somewhat inclined to 
skepticism as to the propriety of erecting monuments at all 
over the dust that once was human. The weight of these 
heavy marbles, though unfelt by the dead corpse or the 
enfranchised soul, presses drearily upon the spirit of the 
survivor and causes him to connect the idea of death with 
the dungeon-like imprisonment of the tomb, instead of with 
the freedom of the skies. Every gravestone that you ever 
made is the visible symbol of a mistaken system. Our 
thoughts should soar upward with the butterfly, not linger 
with the exuviae that confined him. In truth and reason, 
neither those whom we call the living, and still less the de* 
parted, have anything to do with the grave.” 

“ I have never heard anything so heathenish,” said Mr. 
Wigglesworth, perplexed and displeased at sentiments 
which controverted all his notions and feelings and implied 
the utter waste, and worse, of his whole life’s labor. 
“ Would you forget your dead friends the moment they are 
under the sod?” 

“They are not under the sod,” I rejoined; “then why 
should I mark the spot where there is no treasure hidden! 
Forget them? No; but, to remember them aright, I would 
forget what tihey have cast off. And to gain the truer con- 
ception of death I would forget the grave.” 

But still the good old sculptor murmured, and stum-» 
bled, as it were, over the gravestones amid which he had 
walked through life. Whether he were r ight or wrong, I 
had grown the wiser from our companionship and from 
my observations of nature and character as displayed by 


468 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


those who came, with their old griefs or their new ones, 
to get them recorded upon his slabs of marble. And yet 
with my gain of wisdom I had likewise gained perplexity; 
for there was a strange doubt in my mind whether the 
dark shadowing of this life, the sorrows and regrets, have 
not as much real comfort in them — leaving religious in- 
fluences out of the question — as what we term life’s joys. 


) 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL 

One day, in the sick chamber of Father Ephraim, who 
had been forty years the presiding elder over the Shaker 
settlement at Goshen, there was an assemblage of several 
of the chief men of the sect. Individuals had come from 
the rich establishment at Lebanon, from Canterbury, Har- 
vard and Alfred, and from all the other localities where 
this strange people have fertilized the rugged hills of New 
England by their systematic industry. An elder was like- 
wise there who had made a pilgrimage of a thousand miles 
from a village of the faithful in Kentucky to visit his spir- 
itual kindred the children of the sainted Mother Ann. He 
had partaken of the homely abundance of their tables, had 
quaffed the far-famed Shaker cider, and had joined in 
the sacred dance every step of which is believed to alienate 
the enthusiast from earth and bear him onward to heavenly 
purity and bliss. His brethren of the North had now cour- 
teously invited him to be present on an occasion when 
the concurrence of every eminent member of their com- 
munity was peculiarly desirable.- 

The venerable Father Ephraim sat in his easy-chair, not 
only hoary-headed and infirm with age, but worn down by 
a lingering disease which it was evident would very soon 
transfer his patriarchal staff to other hands. At his foot-* 
stool stood a man and woman, both clad in the Shaker 
garb. 


,469 


470 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ My brethren,” said Father Ephraim to the surround- 
ing elders, feebly exerting himself to utter these few words, 
“ here are the son and daughter to whom I would commit 
the trust of which Providence is about to lighten my 
weary shoulders. Read their faces, I pray you, and say 
whether the inward movement of the spirit hath guided 
my choice aright.” 

Accordingly, each elder looked at the two candidates 
with a most scrutinizing gaze. The man — whose name 
was Adam Colburn — had a face sunburnt with labor in 
the fields, yet intelligent, thoughtful and traced with cares 
enough for a whole lifetime, though he had barely reached 
middle age. There was something severe in his aspect 
and a rigidity throughout his person — characteristics that 
caused him generally to be taken for a schoolmaster; which 
vocation, in fact, he had formerly exercised for several 
years. The woman, Martha Pierson, was somewhat above 
thirty, thin and pale, as a Shaker sister almost invariably 
is, and not entirely free from that corpse-like appearance 
which the garb of the sisterhood is so well calculated to 
impart. 

“ This pair are still in the summer of their years,” ob- 
served the elder from Harvard, a shrewd old man. “ I 
would like better to see the hoar-frost of autumn on their 
heads. Methinks, also, they will be exposed to peculiar 
temptations on account of the carnal desires which have 
heretofore subsisted between them. 

“Nay, brother,” said the elder from Canterbury; “the 
hoar-frost and the black frost hath done its work on 
Brother Adam and Sister Martha, even as we sometimes 
discern its traces in our cornfields while they are yet green. 
And why should we question the wisdom of our venerable 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL 


471 


Father’s purpose, although this pair in their early youth 
have loved one another as the world’s people love? Are 
there not many brethren and sisters among us who have 
lived long together in wedlock, yet, adopting our faith, 
find their hearts purified from all but spiritual affection?” 

Whether or no the early loves of Adam and Martha had 
rendered it inexpedient that they should now preside to- 
gether over a Shaker village, it was certainly most singular 
that such should be the final result of .many warm and 
tender hopes. Children of neighboring families, their af- 
fection was older even than their school days; it seemed 
an innate principle interfused among all their sentiments 
and feelings, and not so much a distinct remembrance as 
connected with their whole volume of remembrances. But 
just as they reached a proper age for their union misfor- 
tunes had fallen heavily on both and made it necessary 
that they should resort to personal labor for a bare sub- 
sistence. Even under these* circumstances Martha Pierson 
would probably have consented to unite her fate with 
Adam Colburn’s, and, secure of the bliss of mutual love, 
would patiently have awaited the less important gifts of 
Fortune. But Adam, being of a calm and cautious charac- 
ter, was loth to relinquish the advantages which a single 
man possesses for raising himself in the world. Year after 
year, therefore, their marriage had been deferred. 

Adam Colburn had followed many vocations, had travelled 
far, and seen much of the world and of life. Martha had 
earned her bread sometimes as a sempstress, sometimes as 
help to a farmer’s wife, sometimes as schoolmistress of the 
village children, sometimes as a nurse or watcher of the 
sick, thus acquiring a varied experience, the ultimate use 
of which she little anticipated. But nothing had gone 


472 


TWICE- i'OLD TALES 


prosperously with either of the lovers; at no subsequent 
moment would matrimony have been so prudent a meas- 
ure as when they had first parted, in the opening bloom of 
file, to seek a better fortune. Still, they had held fast their 
mutual faith. Martha might have been the wife of a man 
who sat among the senators of his native state, and Adam 
could have won the hand, as he had unintentionally won 
the heart, of a rich and comely widow. But neither of 
them desired good-fortune save to share it with the other. 

At length that calm despair which occurs only in a 
strong and somewhat stubborn character, and yields to no 
second spring of hope, settled down on the spirit of Adam 
Colburn. He sought an interview with Martha and pro- 
posed that they should join the Society of Shakers. The 
converts of this sect are oftener driven within its hospitable 
gates by worldly misfortunes than drawn thither by fanat- 
icism, and are received without inquisition as to their mo- 
tives. Martha, faithful still, had placed her hand in that 
of her lover and accompanied him to the Shaker village. 
Here the natural capacity of each, cultivated and strength- 
ened by the difficulties of their previous lives, had soon 
gained them an important rank in the society, whose mem- 
bers are generally below the ordinary standard of intelli- 
gence. Their faith and feelings had in some degree be- 
come assimilated to those of their fellow-worshippers. 
Adam Colburn gradually acquired reputation not only in 
the management of the temporal affairs of the society, but 
as a clear and efficient preacher of their doctrines. Martha 
was not less distinguished in the duties proper to her sex. 
Finally, when the infirmities of Father Ephraim had ad- 
monished him to seek a successor in his patriarchal office, 
he thought of Adam and Martha, and proposed to renew 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL 


47a 


in their persons the primitive form of Shaker government 
as established by Mother Ann. They were to be the father 
and mother of the village. The simple ceremony which 
would constitute them such was now to be performed. 

Son Adam and daughter Martha,” said the venerable 
Father Ephraim, fixing his aged eyes piercingly upon them, 
“ if ye can conscientiously undertake this charge, speak, that 
the brethren may not doubt of your fitness.” 

“ Father,” replied Adam, speaking with the calmness of 
his character, “ I came to your village a disappointed man, 
weary of the world, worn out with continual trouble, seek- 
ing only a security against evil-fortune, as I had no hope 
of good. Even my wishes of worldly success were almost 
dead within me. I came hither as a man might come to a 
tomb, willing to lie down in its gloom and coldness for 
the sake of its peace and quiet. There was but one earthly 
affection in my breast, and it had grown calmer since my 
youth; so that I was satisfied to bring Martha to be my 
sister in our new abode. We are brother and sister, nor 
would I have it otherwise. And in this peaceful village I 
have found all that I hope for — all that I desire. I will 
strive with my best strength for the spiritual and tem- 
poral good of our community. My conscience is not 
doubtful in this matter. I am ready to receive the trust.” 

“Thou hast spoken well, son Adam,” said the Father. 
“ God will bless thee in the office which I am about to 
resign.” 

“ But our sister,” observed the elder from Harvard. 
“Hath she not likewise a gift to declare her sentiments?” 

Martha started and moved her lips as if she would 
have made a formal reply to this appeal. But, had she 
attempted it, perhaps the old recollections, the long- 


474 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 

* 

repressed feelings of childhood, youth and womanhood, 
might have gushed from her heart in words that it would 
have been profanation to utter there. 

“Adam has spoken,” said she, hurriedly ; “his sentiments 
are likewise mine.” 

But while speaking these few words Martha grew so 
pale that she looked fitter to be laid in her coffin than to 
stand in the presence of Father Ephraim and the elders; 
she shuddered, also, as if there were something awful or 
horrible in her situation and destiny. It required, indeed 
a more than feminine strength of nerve to sustain the fixed 
observance of men so exalted and famous throughout the 
sect as these were. They had overcome their natural sym- 
pathy with human frailties and affections. One, when he 
joined the society, had brought with him his wife and chil- 
dren, but never from that hour had spoken a fond word 
to the former or taken his best-loved child upon his 
knee. Another, whose family refused to follow him, had 
been enabled — such was his gift of holy fortitude — to 
leave them to the mercy of the world. The youngest of 
the elders, a man of about fifty, had been bred from in- 
fancy in a Shaker village, and was said never to have 
clasped a woman’s hand in his own, and to have no con- 
ception of a closer tie than the cold fraternal one of the sect. 
Old Father Ephraim was the most awful character of all. 
In his youth he had been a dissolute libertine, but was 
converted by Mother Ann herself, and had partaken of the 
wild fanaticism of the early Shakers. Tradition whispered 
at the firesides of the village that Mother Ann had been 
compelled to sear his heart of flesh with a red-hot iron 
before it could be purified from earthly passions. 

However that might be, poor Martha had a woman’s 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL 


475 


heart, and a tender one, and it quailed within her as she 
looked round at those strange old men, and from them 
to the calm features of Adam Colburn. But, perceiving 
that the elders eyed her doubtfully, she gasped for breath 
and again spoke. 

“With what strength is left me by my many troubles,” 
said she, “ 1 am ready to undertake this charge, and to 
do my best in it.” 

“ My children, join your hands,” said Father Ephraim.- 

They did so. The elders stood up around, and the 
Father feebly raised himself to a more erect position, but 
continued sitting in his great chair. 

“ I have bidden you to join your hands,” said he, “not in 
earthly affection, for ye have cast off its .chains forever, 
but as brother and sister in spiritual love and helpers of 
one another in your allotted task. Teach unto others the 
faith which ye have received. Open wide your gates — I 
deliver you the keys thereof — open them wide to all who 
will give up the iniquities of the world and come hither 
to lead lives of purity and peace. Receive the weary ones 
who have known the vanity of earth ; receive the little 
children, that they may never learn that miserable lesson. 
And a blessing be upon your labors ; so that the time may 
hasten on when the mission of Mother Ann shall have 
wrought its full effect, when children shall no more be 
born and die, and the last survivor of mortal race — some 
old and weary man like me — shall see the sun go down, 
nevermore to rise on a world of sin and sorrow.” 

The aged Father sank back exhausted, and the surround- 
ing elders deemed, with good reason, that the hour was 
come when the new heads of the village must enter on 
their patriarchal duties. In their attention to Father Eph- 


476 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


raim their eyes were turned from Martha Pierson, who 
grew paler and paler, unnoticed even by Adam Colburn. 
He, indeed, had withdrawn his hand from hers and folded 
his arms with a sense of satisfied ambition. But paler 
and paler grew Martha by his side, till, like a corpse in 
its burial-clothes, she sank down at the feet of her early 
lover; for, after many trials firmly borne, her heart could 
endure the weight of its desolate agony no longer. 


NIGHT SKETCHES 


BENEATH AN UMBRELLA. 

Pleasant is a rainy winter’s day within-doors. The best 
study for such a day — or the best amusement — call it 
what you will — is a book of travels describing scenes the 
most unlike that sombre one which is mistily presented 
through the windows. I have experienced that Fancy is 
then most successful in imparting distinct shapes and vivid 
colors to the objects which the author has spread upon 
his page, and that his words become magic spells to sum- 
mon up a thousand varied pictures. Strange landscapes 
glimmer through the familiar walls of the room, and out- 
landish figures thrust themselves almost within the sacred 
precincts of the hearth. Small as my chamber is, it has 
space enough to contain the ocean-like circumference of 
an Arabian desert, its parched sands tracked by the long 
line of a caravan with the camels patiently journeying 
through the heavy sunshine. Though my ceiling be not 
lofty, yet I can pile up the mountains of Central Asia be- 
neath it till their summits shine far above the clouds of the 
middle atmosphere. And with my humble means — a 
wealth that is not taxable — I can transport hither the 
magnificent merchandise of an Oriental bazaar, and call 
a crowd of purchasers from distant countries to pay a fair 
nrofit for the precious articles which are displayed on all 

477 


478 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 

sides. True it is, however, that, amid the bustle of traffic, 
or whatever else may seem to be going on around me. the 
raindrops will occasionally be heard to patter against mj 
window-panes, which look forth upon one of the quietest 
streets in a New England town. After a time, too, the vis- 
ions vanish, and will not appear again at my bidding. 
Then, it being nightfall, a gloomy sense of unreality de- 
presses my spirits, and impels me to venture out before 
the clock shall strike bedtime to satisfy myself that the 
world is not entirely made up of such shadowy materials 
as have busied me throughout the day. A dreamer may 
dwell so long among fantasies that the things without him 
will seem as unreal as those within. 

When eve has fairly set in, therefore, I sally forth, 
tightly buttoning my Shaggy overcoat and hoisting my 
umbrella, the silken dome of which immediately resounds 
with the heavy drumming of the invisible raindrops. Paus- 
ing on the lowest doorstep, I contrast the warmth and 
cheerfulness of my deserted fireside with the drear ob- 
scurity and chill discomfort into which I am about to 
plunge. Now come fearful auguries innumerable as the 
drops of rain. Did not my manhood cry shame upon me, 
I should turn back within-doors, resume my elbow-chair, 
my slippers and my book, pass such an evening of slug- 
gish enjoyment as the day has been, and go to bed in- 
glorious. The same shivering reluctance, no doubt, has 
quelled for a moment the adventurous spirit of many a 
traveller when his feet, which were destined to measure 
the earth around, were leaving their last tracks in the 
home-paths. 

In my own case poor human nature may be allowed a 
few misgivings. I look upward and discern no sky, not 


NIGHT SKETCHES 


479 


even an unfathomable void, but only a black, impenetrable 
nothingness, as though heaven and all its lights were blot- 
ted from the system of the universe. It is as if Nature 
were dead and the world had put on black and the clouds 
were weeping for her. With -their tears upon my cheek 
I turn my eyes earthward, but find little consolation here 
below. A lamp is burning dimly at the distant corner, and 
throws just enough of light along the street to show, and 
exaggerate by so faintly showing, the perils and difficulties 
which beset my path. Yonder dingily-white remnant of a 
huge snowbank, which will yet cumber the sidewalk till 
the latter days of March, over or through that wintry- 
waste must I stride onward. Beyond lies a certain Slough 
of*Despond, a concoction of mud and liquid filth, ankle- 
deep, leg-deep, neck-deep — in a word, of unknown bottom 
— on which the lamplight does not even glimmer, but 
which I have occasionally watched in the gradual growth 
of its horrors from morn till nightfall. Should I flounder 
into its depths, farewell to upper earth! And hark! how 
roughly resounds the roaring of a stream the turbulent 
career of which is partially reddened by the gleam of the 
lamp, but elsewhere brawls noisily through the densest 
gloom! Oh, should I be swept away in fording that im- 
petuous and unclean torrent, the coroner will have a jot> 
with an unfortunate gentleman who would fain end his 
troubles anywhere but in a mud-puddle. 

Pshaw! I will linger not another instant at arm’s-length 
from these dim terrors, which grow more obscurely for- 
midable the longer I delay to grapple with them. Now for 
the onset, and, lo! with little damage save a dash of rain 
in the face and breast, a splash of mud high up the pan- 
taloons, and the left boot full of ice-cold water, behold 


480 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


me at the corner of the street. The lamp throws down 
a circle of red light around me, and twinkling onward 
from corner to corner I discern other beacons, marshall- 
ing my way to a brighter scene. But this is a lonesome 
and dreary spot. The tall edifices bid gloomy defiance to 
the storm with their blinds all closed, even as a man winks 
when he faces a spattering gust How loudly tinkles the 
collected rain down the tin spouts ! The puffs of wind are 
boisterous, and seem to assail me from various quarters at 
once. I have often observed that this corner is a haunt 
and loitering-place for those winds which have no work to 
do upon the deep dashing ships against our iron-bound 
shores, nor in the forest tearing up the sylvan giants with 
half a rood of soil at their vast roots. Here they amuse 
themselves with lesser freaks of mischief. See, at this 
moment, how they assail yonder poor woman who is pass- 
ing just within the verge of the lamplight! One blast 
struggles for her umbrella and turns it wrong side out- 
ward, another whisks the cape of her cloak across her 
eyes, while a third takes most unwarrantable liberties with 
the lower part of her attire. Happily, the good dame is 
no gossamer, but a figure of rotundity and fleshly sub- 
stance; else would these aerial tormentors whirl her aloft 
like a witch upon a broomstick, and set her down, doubt- 
less, in the filthiest kennel hereabout. 

From hence I tread upon firm pavements into the cen 
tre of the town. Here there is almost as brilliant an illu- 
mination as when some great victory has been won, either 
on the battlefield or at the polls. Two rows of shops with 
windows down nearly to the ground cast a glow from side 
to side, while the black night hangs overhead like a canopy, 
and thus keeps the splendor from diffusing itself away. 


NIGHT SKETCHES 


481 


The wet sidewalks gleam tvith a broad sheet of red light. 
The raindrops glitter as if the sky were pouring down 
rubies. The spouts gush with fire. Methinks the scene 
is an emblem of the deceptive glare which mortals throw 
around their footsteps in the moral world, thus bedaz- 
zling themselves till they forget the impenetrable ob- 
scurity that hems them in, and that can be dispelled only 
by radiance from above. • 

And, after all, it is a cheerless scene, and cheerless are 
the wanderers in it. Here comes one who has so long 
been familiar with tempestuous weather that he takes the 
bluster of the storm for a friendly greeting, as if it should 
say, “How fare ye, brother?” He is a retired sea-captain 
wrapped in some nameless garment of the pea-jacket order, 
and is now laying his course toward the marine-insurance 
office, there to spin yarns of gale and shipwreck with a 
crew of old sea-dogs like himself. The blast will put in 
its word among their hoarse voices, and be understood by 
all of them. Next I meet an unhappy slipshod gentleman 
with a cloak flung hastily over his shoulders, running a 
race with boisterous winds and striving to glide between 
the drops of rain.- Some domestic emergency or other has 
blown this miserable man from his warm fireside in quest 
of a doctor. See that little vagabond! How carelessly he 
has taken his stand right underneath a spout while staring 
at some object of curiosity in a shop-window! Surely the 
rain is his native element; he must have fallen with it from 
the clouds, as frogs are supposed to do. 

Here is a picture, and a pretty one — a young man and 
a girl, both enveloped in cloaks and huddled beneath the 
scanty-protection of a cotton umbrella. She wears rubber 
overshoes, but he is in his dancing-pumps, and they are 


482 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


cn their way, no doubt, to some cotillon-party or sub- 
scription-ball at a dollar a head, refreshments included. 
Thus they struggle against the gloomy tempest, lured on- 
ward by a vision of festal splendor. But, ah! a most 
lamentable disaster! Bewildered by the red, blue and yellow 
meteors in an apothecary’s window, they have stepped 
upon a slippery remnant of ice, and are precipitated into 
a confluence of swollen floods at the corner of two streets. 
Luckless lovers! Were it my nature to be other than a 
looker-on in life, I would attempt your rescue. Since that 
may not be, I vow, should you be drowned, to weave such 
a pathetic story of your fate as shall call forth tears enough 
to drown you both anew. Do ye touch bottom, my young 
friends? Yes; they emerge like a water-nymph and a 
river-deity, and paddle hand in hand out of the depths of 
the dark pool. They hurry homeward, dripping, disconso- 
late, abashed, but with love too warm to be chilled by the 
cold water. They have stood a test which proves too 
strong for many. Faithful though over head and ears in 
trouble! 

Onward I go, deriving- a sympathetic joy or sorrow from 
the varied aspect of mortal affairs even as my figur« 
catches a gleam from the lighted windows or >.s blackened 
by an interval of darkness. Not that mine is altogether 
a chameleon spirit with no hue of its own. Now I pass 
into a more retired street where the dwellings of wealth 
and poverty are intermingled, presenting a range of 
strongly contrasted pictures. Here, too, may be found the 
golden mean. Through yonder casement I discern a fam- 
ily circle — the grandmother, the parents and the children 
— all flickering, shadow-like, in the glow of a wood-fire. 
Bluster, fierce blast, and beat, thou wintry rain, against 


NIGHT SKETCHES 


483 


the window-panes! Ye cannot damp the enjoyment of that 
fireside. — Surely my fate is hard that I should be wander- 
ing homeless here, taking to my bosom night and storm 
and solitude instead of wife and children. Peace, mur- 
! murer! Doubt not that darker guests are sitting round 
the hearth, though the warm blaze hides all but blissful 
images. 

Well, here is still a brighter scene — a stately mansion 
illuminated for a ball, with cut-glass chandeliers and ala- 
baster lamps in every room, and sunny landscapes hanging 
j round the walls. See ! a coach has stopped, whence 
| emerges a slender beauty who, canopied by two umbrellas, 
glides within the portal and vanishes amid lightsome thrills 
i of music. Will she ever feel the night-wind and the rain? 
Perhaps — perhaps! And will Death and Sorrow ever en- 
ter that proud mansion? As surely as the dancers will 
I be gay within its halls to-night. Such thoughts sadden 
yet satisfy my heart, for they teach me that the poor man 
in this mean, weather-beaten hovel, without a fire to cheer 
him, may call the rich his brother — brethren by Sorrow, 
who must be an inmate of both their households; brethren 
by Death, who will lead them both to other homes. 

Onward, still onward, I plunge into the night. Now 
have I reached the utmost limits of the town, where the 
last lamp struggles feebly with the darkness like the far- 
thest star that stands sentinel on the borders of uncreated 
space. It is strange what sensations of sublimity may 
spring from a very humble source. Such are suggested by 
this hollow roar of a subterranean cataract where the 
mighty stream of a kennel precipitates itself beneath an 
iron grate and is seen no more on earth. Listen a while to 
its voice of mystery, and Fancy will magnify it till you 


484 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


! ' 


start and smile at' the illusion. And now another sound 
— the rumbling of wheels as the mail-coach, outward 
bound, rolls heavily off the pavements and splashes 
through the mud and water of the road. All night long 
the poor passengers will be tossed to and fro between 
drowsy watch and troubled sleep, and will dream of their 
own quiet beds and awake to find themselves still jolting 
onward. Happier my lot, who will straightway hie me to 
my familiar room and toast myself comfortably before the 
fire, musing and fitfully dozing and fancying a strangeness 
in such sights as all may see. But first let me gaze at this 
solitary figure who comes hitherward with a tin lantern 
which throws the circular pattern of its punched holes on 
the ground about him. He passes fearlessly into the un- 
known gloom, whither I will not follow him. 

This figure shall supply me with a moral wherewith, for 
lack of a more appropriate one, I may wind up my sketch. 
He fears not to tread the dreary path before him, because 
his lantern, which was kindled at the fireside of his home, 
will light him back to that same fireside again. And thus I 
we, night-wanderers through a stormy and dismal world, 
if we bear the lamp of Faith, enkindled at a celestial fire, 
it will surely lead us home to that heaven whence its radiance 
was borrowed. 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 


At noon of an autumnal day more than two centuries 
ago the English colors were displayed by the standard- 
bearer of the Salem train-band, which had mustered for 
martial exercise under the orders of John Endicott. It was 
a period when the religious exiles were accustomed often 
to buckle on their armor and practice the handling of their 
weapons of war. Since the first settlement of New Eng- 
land its prospects had never been so dismal. The dis- 
sensions between Charles I. and his subjects were then, 
and for several years afterward, confined to the floor of 
Parliament. The measures of the king and ministry were 
rendered more tyrannically violent by an opposition which 
had not yet acquired sufficient confidence in its own 
strength to resist royal injustice with the sword. The big- 
oted and haughty primate Laud, archbishop of Canter- 
bury, controlled the religious affairs of the realm, and was 
consequently invested with powers which might have 
wrought the utter ruin of the two Puritan colonies, Ply- 
mouth and Massachusetts. There is evidence on record 
that our forefathers perceived their danger, but were re- 
solved that their infant country should not fall without a 
struggle, even beneath the giant strength of the king’s right 
arm. 

Such was the aspect of the times when the folds of the 
English banner with the red cross in its field were flung 

485 


486 


TWICE- 1ULD TALES 


out over a company of Puritans. Their leader, the famous 
Endicott, was a man of stern and resolute countenance, 
the effect of which was heightened by a grizzled beard 
that swept the upper portion of his breastplate. This piece 
of armor was so highly polished that the whole surround- 
ing scene had its image in the glittering steel. The central 
object in the mirrored picture was an edifice of humble 
architecture with neither steeple nor bell to proclaim it 
— what, nevertheless, it was — the . house of prayer. A 
token of the perils of the wilderness was seen in the grim 
head of a wolf which had just been slain within the pre- 
cincts of the town, and, according to the regular mode of 
claiming the bounty, was nailed on the porch of the meet- 
ing-house. The blood was still plashing on the doorstep. 
There happened to be visible at the same noontide hour so 
many other characteristics of the time and manners of the 
Puritans that v/e must endeavor to represent them in a 
sketch, though far less vividly than they were reflected in 
the polished breastplate of John Endicott. 

In close vicinity to the sacred edifice appeared that im- 
portant engine of puritanic authority the whipping-post, 
with the soil around it well trodden by the feet of evil- 
doers who had there been disciplined. At one corner of 
the meeting-house was the pillory and at the other the 
stocks, and, by a singular good fortune for our sketch, the 
head of an Episcopalian and suspected Catholic was gro- 
tesquely encased in the former machine while a fellow- 
criminal who had boisterously quaffed a health to the king 
was confined by the legs in the latter. Side by side on the 
meeting-house steps stood a male and a female figure. 
The man was a tall, lean, haggard personification of fanati- 
cism, bearing on his breast this label, “ Wanton Gospeller,” 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 


48T 


which betokened that he had dared to give interpretation 
of Holy Writ unsanctioned by the infallible judgment of 
the civil and religious rulers. His aspect showed no lack 
of zeal to maintain his heterodoxies even at the stake. The 
woman wore a cleft stick on her tongue, in appropriate 
retribution for having wagged that unruly member against 
the elders of the church, and her countenance and gestures 
gave much cause to apprehend that the moment the stick 
should be removed a repetition of the offence would de- 
mand new ingenuity in chastising it. 

The above mentioned individuals had been sentenced to 
undergo their various modes of ignominy for the space of 
one hour at noonday. But among the crowd were several 
whose punishment would be lifelong — some whose ears 
had been cropped like those of puppy-dogs, others whose 
cheeks had been branded with the initials of their misde- 
meanors; one with his nostrils slit and seared, and an- 
other with a halter about his neck, which he was forbid- 
den ever to take off or to conceal beneath his garments. 
Methinks he must have been grievously tempted' to affix 
the other end of the rope to some convenient beam or 
bough. There was likewise a young wbman with no 
mean share of beauty whose doom it was to wear the let- 
ter A on the breast of her gown in the eyes of all the world 
and her own children. And even her own children knew 
what that initial signified. Sporting with her infamy, the 
lost and desperate creature had embroidered the fatal 
token in scarlet cloth with golden thread and the nicest 
art of needlework; so that the capital A might have 


488 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


been thought to mean “ Admirable,” or anything rather 
than “Adulteress.”* 

Let not the reader argue from any of these evidences 
of iniquity that the times of the Puritans were more 
vicious than our own, when as we pass along the very 
stieet. of this sketch we discern no badge of infamy on 
man or woman. It was the policy of our ancestors to 
search out even the most secret sins and expose them 
o shame, without fear or favor, in the broadest light 
af the noonday sun. Were such the custom now, per- 
chance we might find materials for a no less piquant sketch 
than the above. 

Except the malefactors whom we have described and 
the diseased or infirm persons, the whole male popula- 
tion of the town between sixteen years and sixty were 
seen in the ranks of the train-band. A few stately sav- 
ages in all the pomp and dignity of the primeval Indian 
stood gazing at the spectacle. Their flint-headed arrows 
were but childish weapons, compared with the match- 
locks of the Puritans, and would have rattled harmlessly 
against the steel caps and hammered iron breastplates 
which enclosed each soldier in an individual fortress. 
The valiant John Endicott glanced with an eye of pride 
at his sturdy followers, and prepared to renew the mar- 
tial toils of the day. 

" Come, my stout hearts !” quoth he, drawing his sword. 
‘‘Let us show these poor heathen that we can handle our 
weapons like men of might. Well for them if they put 
us not to prove it in earnest!” 

The iron-breasted company straightened their line, and 

*The first suggestion of The Scarlet Letter. Hawthorne is said to 
have found an allusion to this mode of punishment in the town records 
>t Boston . 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 


489 


each man drew the heavy butt of his matchlock close to 
his left foot, thus awaiting the orders of the captain. 
But as Endicott glanced right and left along the front he 
discovered a personage at some little distance with whom 
it behooved him to hold a parley. It was an elderly gen- 
tleman wearing a black cloak and band and a high- 
crowned hat, beneath which was a velvet skull cap, the 
whole being the garb of a Puritan minister. This rev- 
erend person bore a staff which seemed to have been 
recently cut in the forest, and his shoes were bemired, 
as if he had been travelling on foot through the swamps 
of the wilderness. His aspect was perfectly that of a 
pilgrim, heightened also by an apostolic dignity. Just 
as Endicott perceived him he laid aside his staff and 
stooped to drink at the bubbling fountain which gushed 
into the sunshine about a score of yards from the corner 
of the meeting-house. But ere the good man drank he 
turned his face heavenward in thankfulness, and then, 
holding back his gray beard with one hand, he scooped 
up his simple draught in the hollow of the other. 

“What ho, good Mr. Williams ! ” shouted Endicott. 
“ You are welcome back again to our town of peace. 
How does our worthy Governor Winthrop? And what 
news from Boston?” 

“ The governor hath his health, worshipful sir,” an- 
swered Roger Williams, now resuming his staff and 
drawing near. “And, for the news, here is a letter which, 
knowing I was to travel hitherward to-day, His Excel- 
lency committed to my charge. Belike it contains tidings 
of much import, for a ship arrived yesterday from Eng- 
land.” 

Mr. Williams, the minister of Salem, and of course 


490 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


known to all the spectators, had now reached the spot 
where Endicott was standing under the banner of his 
company, and put the governor’s epistle into his hand. 
The broad seal was impressed with Winthrop’s coat-of- 
arms. Endicott hastily unclosed the letter and began 
to read, while, as his eye passed down the page, a wrath- 
ful change came over his manly countenance. The blood 
glowed through it till it seemed to be kindling with an 
internal heat, nor was it unnatural to suppose that his 
breastplate would likewise become red hot with the angry . 
fire of the bosom which it covered. Arriving at the 
conclusion, he shook the letter fiercely in his hand, so 
that it rustled as loud as the flag above his head. 

“Black tidings these, Mr. Williams,” said he; “blacker 
never came to New England. Doubtless you know their 
purport? ” 

“Yea, truly,” replied Roger Williams, “for the gov- 
ernor consulted respecting this matter with' my brethren 
in the ministry at Boston, and my opinion was likewise 
asked. And His Excellency entreats you by me that the 
news be not suddenly noised abroad, lest the people be 
stirred up unto some outbreak, and thereby give the king 
and the archbishop a handle against us.” 

“ The governor is a wise man — a wise man, and a 
meek and moderate,” said Endicott, setting his teeth 
grimly. “ Nevertheless, I must do according to my own 
best judgment. There is neither man, woman nor child 
in New England but has a concern as dear as life in these 
tidings; and if John Endicott’s voice be loud enough, 
man, woman and child shall hear them. Soldiers, wheel 
into a hollow square. Ho, good people! Here 
for one and all of you.” 


are news 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 


491 


The soldiers closed in around their captain, and he and 
Roger Williams stood together under the banner of the 
red cross, while the women and the aged men pressed 
forward and the mothers held up their children to look 
Endicott in the face. A few taps of the drum gave sig- 
nal for silence and attention. 

“ Fellow soldiers, fellow exiles,” began Endicott, speak- 
ing under strong excitement, yet powerfully restraining 
it, “wherefore did ye leave your native country? Where- 
fore, I say, have we left the green and fertile fields, the 
cottages, or, perchance, the old gray halls, where we were 
born and bred, the churchyards where our forefathers lie 
buried? Wherefore have we come hither to set up our 
own tombstones in a wilderness? A howling wilderness 
it is. The wolf and the bear meet us within halloo of 
our dwellings. The savage lieth in wait for us in the 
dismal shadow of the woods. The stubborn roots of the 
trees break our ploughshares when we would till the 
earth. Our children cry for bread, and we must dig in 
the sands of the seashore to satisfy them. Wherefore, 
1 say again, have we sought this country of a rugged 
soil and wintry sky? Was it not for the enjoyment of our 
civil rights? Was it not for liberty to worship God ac- 
cording to our conscience?” 

“ Call you this liberty of conscience ” interrupted a 
voice on the steps of the meeting house. 

It was the wanton gospeller. A sad and quiet smile 
flitted across the mild visage of Roger Williams, but En- 
dicott, in the excitement of the moment, shook his sword 
wrathfully at the culprit — an ominous gesture from a 
man like him. 

“What hast thou to do with conscience, thou knave?” 


492 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


cried he. “ I said liberty to worship God, not license to 
profane and ridicule him. Break not in upon my speech, 
or I will lay thee neck and heels till this time to-morrow. 
Hearken to me, friends, nor heed that accursed rhapso- 
dist. As I was saying, we have sacrificed all things, 
and have- come to a land whereof the Old World hath 
scarcely heard, that we might make a new world unto 
ourselves and painfully seek a path from hence to heaven. 
But what think ye now? This son of a Scotch tyrant — 
this grandson of a papistical and adulterous Scotch woman 
whose death proved that a golden crown doth not always 
3ave an anointed head from the block — ” 

“Nay, brother, nay,” interposed Mr. Williams; “thy 
words are not meet for a secret chamber, far less for a 
public street.” 

“Hold thy peace, Roger Williams!” answered Endicott, 
imperiously. “ My spirit is wiser than thine for the 
business now in hand. I tell ye, fellow exiles, that 
Charles of England and Laud, our bitterest persecutor, 
arch-priest of Canterbury, are resolute to pursue us even 
hither. They are taking counsel, saith this letter, to send 
over a governor-general in whose breast shall be depos- 
ited all the law and equity of the land. They are 
minded, also, to establish the idolatrous forms of English 
episcopacy; so that when Laud shall kiss the Pope’s toe 
as cardinal of Rome he may deliver New England bound 
hand and foot, into the power of his master.” 

A deep groan from the auditors — a sound of wrath as 
well as fear and sorrow — responded to this intelligence. 

“ Look ye to it, brethren,” resumed Endicott, with in- 
creasing energy. “If this king and this archprelate have 
their will, we shall briefly behold a cross on the spire of 


ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 


493 


this tabernacle which we have budded, and a high altar 
within its walls, with wax tapers burning round it at 
noonday. We shall hear the sacring-bell and the voices 
of the Romish priests saying the mass. But think ye, 
Christian men, that these abominations may be suffered 
without a sword drawn, without a shot fired, without 
blood spilt — yea, on the very stairs of the pulpit? No! 
Be ye strong of hand and stout of heart. Here we stand 
on our own soil, which we have bought with our goods, 
which we have won with our swords, which we have 
cleared with our axes, which we have tilled with the sweat 
of our brows, which we have sanctified with our prayers 
to the God that brought us hither! Who shall enslave 
us here? What have we to do with this mitred prelate 
— with this crowned king? What have we to do with 
England. 

Endicott gazed round at the excited countenances of 
the people, now full of his own spirit, and then turned 
suddenly to the standard-bearer, who stood close be- 
hind him. 

“ Officer, lower your banner,” said he. 

The officer obeyed, and, brandishing his sword, Endi- 
cott thrust it through the cloth and with his left hand 
rent the red cross completely out of the banner. He 
then waved the tattered ensign above his head. 

“Sacrilegious wretch!” cried the high-churchman in 
the pillory, unable longer to restrain himself; “thou hast 
rejected the symbol of our holy religion.” 

“Treason! treason!” roared the royalist in the stocks. 
“He hath defaced the king’s banner!” 

“ Before God and man I will avouch the deed,” an- 
swered Endicott. “ Beat a flourish, drummer — shout sol- 


494 


i WICE-TOLD TALES 


diers and people — in honor of the ensign of New Eng- 
land. Neither pope nor tyrant hath part in it now.” 

With a cry of triumph the people gave their sanction to 
one of the boldest exploits which our history records. 
And forever honored be the name of Endicott! We look 
back through the mist of ages, and recognize in the 
rending of the red cross from New England’s banner the 
first omen ot chat deliverance which our fathers consum- 
mated after the bones of the stern Puritan had lain more 
than a century in the dust. 


THE LILY’S QUEST 

AN APOLOGUE. 

[“Two lovers to plan the building of a pleasure-house on a 
certain spot of ground, but various seeming accidents prevent 
it. Once they find a group of miserable children there ; once it 
is the scene where crime is plotted ; at last the dead body of 
one of the lovers, or of a dear friend, is found there; and, 
instead of a pleasure-house, they build a marble tomb. The 
moral, — that there is no place on earth fit for the site of a 
pleasure-house, because there is no spot that may not have 
been saddened by human grief, stained by crime, or hallowed 
by death. It might be three "friends who plan it, instead of 
two lovers; and the dearest one dies.” American Note- 
Books, p. 37.] 

Two lovers once upon a time had planned a little sum- 
mer house in the form of an antique temple which it 
was their purpose to consecrate to all manner of refined 
and innocent enjoyments. There they would hold pjeas- 
ant intercourse with one another, and the circle of their 
familiar friends; there they would give festivals of de- 
licious fruit ; there they would hear lightsome music inter- 
mingled with the strains of pathos which make joy more 
sweet; there they would read poetry and fiction, and per- 
mit their own minds to flit away in day dreams and ro- 
mance; there, in short — for why should we shape out 
the vague sunshine of their hopes? — there all pure de- 
lights were to cluster like roses among the pillars of the 
edifice, and blossom ever new and spontaneously. 

So one breezy and cloudless afternoon Adam Forrester 

495 


496 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


and Lilias Fay set out upon a ramble over the wide estate 
which they were to possess together, seeking a proper 
site for their temple of happiness. They were them- 
selves a fair and happy spectacle, fit priest and priestess 
for such a shrine, although, making poetry of the pretty 
name of Lilias, Adam Forrester was wont to call her 
“ Lily,” because her form was as fragile and her cheek 
almost as pale. As they passed hand in hand down the 
avenue of drooping elms that led from the portal of 
Lilias Fay’s paternal mansion, they seemed to glance 
like winged creatures through the strips of sunshine, and 
to scatter brightness where the deep shadows fell. 

But, setting forth at the same time with this youthful 
pair, there was a dismal figure wrapped in a black velvet 
cloak that might have been made of a coffin pall, and 
with a sombre hat such as mourners wear drooping its 
broad brim over his heavy brows. Glancing behind them, 
the iovers well knew who it was that followed, but wished 
from their hearts that he had been elsewhere, as being 
a companion so strangely unsuited to their joyous errand. 
It was a near relative of Lilias Fay, an old man by the 
name of Walter Gascoigne, who had long labored under 
the burden of a melancholy spirit which was sometimes 
maddened into absolute insanity, and always had a tinge 
of it. What a contrast between the young pilgrims of 
bliss and their unbidden associate! They looked as if 
moulded of heaven’s sunshine, and he of earth’s gloomiest 
shade; they flitted along like Hope and Joy roaming hand 
in hand through life, while his darksome figure stalked 
behind a type of all the woful influences which life could 
fling upon them. 


THE LILY’S QUEST 


497 


But the three had not gone far when they reacnecl 
a spot that pleased the gentle Lily, and she paused. 

“What sweeter place shall we find than this?” said 
she. “ Why should we seek farther for the site of out 
temple? ” 

It was indeed a delightful spot of earth, though undis- 
tipguished by any very prominent beauties, being merely 
a nook in the shelter of a hill, with the prospect of a dis- 
tant lake in one direction, and of a church spire in an- 
other. There were vistas and pathways leading onward 
and onward into the green woodlands and vanishing 
away in the glimmering shade. The temple, if erected 
here, would look toward the west ; so that the lovers 
could shape all sorts of magnificent dreams out of the 
purple, violet and gold of the sunset sky, and few of 
their anticipated pleasures were dearer than this sport 
of fantasy. 

“Yes,” said Adam Forrester; “we might seek all day 
and find no lovelier spot. We will build our temple here.” 

But their sad old companion, who had taken his stand 
on the very site which they proposed to cover with a 
marble floor, shook his head and frowned, and the young 
man and the Lily deemed it almost enough to blight {he 
spot and desecrate it for their airy temple that his dis- 
mal figure had thrown its shadow there. He ’ pointed 
to some scattered stones, the remnants of a former 
structure, and to flowers such as young girls delight to 
nurse in their gardens, but which had now relapsed into 
the wild simplicity of nature. 

“Not here,” cried old Walter Gascoigne. “Here, long 
ago, other mortals built their temple of happiness; seek 
another site for yours.” 


498 


rWICE-TOLD TALES 


“What!” exclaimed Lilias Fay. “Have any eve> 
planned such a temple save ourselves?” 

“Poor child!” said her gloomy kinsman. “In on* 
shape or other every mortal has dreamed your dream.” 
Then he told the lovers, how — not, indeed, an antique 
temple, but a dwelling — had once stood there, and that 
a dark-clad guest had dwelt among its inmates, sitting 
forever at the fireside, and poisoning all their household 
mirth. 

Under this type Adam Forrester and Lilias saw that 
the old man spake of sorrow. He told of nothing that 
might not be recorded in the history of almost every 
household, and yet his hearers felt as if no sunshine ought 
to fall upon a spot where human grief had left so deep 
a stain — or, at least, that no joyous temple should be 
built there. 

“ This is very sad,” said the Lily, sighing. 

“Wdl, there are lovelier spots than this,” said Adam 
Forrester, soothingly — “spots which sorrow has not 
blighted.” 

So they hastened away, and the melancholy Gascoigne 
followed them, looking as if he had gathered up all the 
gloom of the deserted spot and was bearing it as a bur- 
den of inestimable treasure. But still they rambled on, 
and soon found themselves in a rocky dell through the 
midst of which ran a streamlet with ripple and foam and 
a continual voice of inarticulate joy. It was a wild re- 
treat walled on either side with gray precipices which 
would have frowned somewhat too sternly had not a 
profusion of green shrubbery rooted itself into their crev- 
ices and wreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn 
brows. But the chief joy of the dell was in the little 




THE LILY’S QUEST 


499 


stream which seemed like the presence of a blissful child 
with nothing earthly to do save to babble merrily and dis- 
port itself, and make every living soul its playfellow, and 
throw the sunny gleams of its spirit upon all. 

“Here, here is the spot!” cried the two lovers, with 
| one voice, as they reached a level space on the brink of a 
I* small cascade. “ This glen was made on purpose for 
! our temple.” 

“And the glad song of the brook will be always in our 
ears,” said Lilias Fay. 

“And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our life- 
time,” said Adam Forrester. 

“ Ye must build no temple here, murmured their dis- 
[ mal companion. 

And there again was the old lunatic standing just on 
the spot where they meant to rear th£ir lightsome dome, 

: and looking like the embodied symbol of some great 
s woe that in forgotten days had happened there. And, 
alas ! there had been woe, nor that alone. A young 
I man more than a hundred years before had lured hither 
a girl that loved him, and on this spot had murdered 
her and washed his bloody hands in the stream which 
sang so merrily, and ever since the victim’s death shrieks 
were often heard to echo between the cliffs. 

“And see!” cried old Gascoigne; “is the stream yet 
pure from the stain of the murderer’s hands?” 

“ Methinks it has a. tinge of blood,” faintly answered 
the Lily; and, being as slight as the gossamer, she trem- 
bled and clung to her lover’s arm, whispering “ Let us 
ffee from this dreadful vale.” 

“Come, then,” said Adam Forrester as cheerily as he 
could; “we shall soon find a happier spot.” 


500 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


They set forth again, young pilgrims on that quest 
which millions — which every child of earth — has tried 
in turn. 

And were the Lily and her lover to be more fortunate 
than all those millions? For a long time it seemed not 
so. The dismal shape of the old lunatic still glided be- 
hind them, and for every spot that looked lovely in their 
eyes he had some legend of human wrong or suffering so 
miserably sad that his auditors could never afterward 
connect the idea of joy with the place where it had hap- 
pened. Here a heartbroken woman kneeling to her child 
had been spurned from his feet; here a desolate old crea- 
ture had prayed to the evil one, and had received a 
fiendish malignity of soul in answer to her prayer; here 
a new born infant, sweet blossom of life, had been found 
dead with the impress of its mother’s fingers round its 
throat; and here, under a shattered oak, two lovers had 
been stricken by lightning and fell blackened corpses in 
each other’s arms. The dreary Gascoigne had a gift to 
know whatever evil and lamentable thing had stained the 
bosom of Mother Earth ; and when his funereal voice had 
told the tale, it appeared like a prophecy of future woe as 
well as a tradition of the past. And now, by their sad 
demeanor, you would have fancied that the pilgrim 
lovers were seeking, not a temple of earthly joy, but a 
tomb for themselves and their posterity. 

“ Where in this world,” exclaimed Adam Forrester, 
despondingly, “shall we build our temple of happiness?” 

“Where in this world, indeed?” repeated Lilias Fay, 
and, being faint and weary — the more so by the heavi- 
ness of her heart — the Lily drooped her head and sat 


THE LILY’S QUEST 


501 


down on the summit of a knoll, repeating, “ Where in 
this world shall we build our temple?” 

"Ah! have you already asked yourselves that question?” 
said their companion, his shaded features growing even 
gloomier with the smile that dwelt on them. “ Yet there 
is a place even in this world where ye may build it.” 

While the old man spoke Adam Forrester and Lilias 
had carelessly thrown their eyes around, and perceived 
that the spot where they had chanced to pause, pos- 
sessed a quiet charm which was well enough adapted to 
their present mood of mind. It was a small rise of ground 
with a certain regularity of shape that had perhaps been 
bestowed by art, and a group of trees which almost sur- 
rounded it threw their pensive shadows across and far 
beyond, although some softened glory of the sunshine 
found its way there. The ancestral mansion wherein the 
lovers would dwell together appeared on one side, and 
the ivied church where they were to worship on another. 
Happening to cast their eyes on the ground, they smiled, 
yet with a sense of wonder, to see that a pale lily was 
growing at their feet. 

“ We will build our temple here,” said they, simulta- 
neously, and with an indescribable conviction that they 
had at last found the very spot. 

Yet while they uttered this exclamation the young man 
and the Lily turned an apprehensive glance at their 
dreary associate, deeming it hardly possible that some 
tale of earthly affliction should not make those precincts 
loathsome, as in every former case. The old man stood 
just behind them, so as to form the chief figure in the 
group, with his sable cloak muffling the lower part of his 
visage, and his sombre hat overshadowing his brows. 


502 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


But he gave no word of dissent from their purpose, and 
an inscrutable smile was accepted by the lovers as a 
token that here had been no footprint of guilt or sorrow 
to desecrate the site of their temple of happiness. 

In a little time longer, while summer was still in its 
prime, the fairy structure of the temple arose on the 
summit of the knoll amid the solemn shadows of the 
trees, yet often gladdened with bright sunshine. It was ■ 
built of white marble, with slender and graceful pillars ' 
supporting a vaulted dome, and beneath the center of | 
this dome, upon a pedestal, was a slab of dark-veined 
marble on which books and music might be strewn. But < 
there was a fantasy among the people of the neighbor- j 
hood that the edifice was planned after an ancient mauso- I 
leum and was intended for a tomb, and that the central 

slab of dark-veined marble was to be inscribed with the j 

• • ‘ 

names of buried ones. They doubted, too, whether the 1 
form of Lilias Fay could appertain to a creature of this J 
earth, being so very delicate and growing every day j 
more fragile, so that she looked as if the summer breeze i 
should snatch her up and waft her heavenward. But ^ 
still she watched the daily growth of the temple, and so I 
did old Walter Gascoigne, who now made that spot his 1 
continual haunt, leaning whole hours together on his 
staff, and giving as deep attention to the work as though 
it had been indeed a tomb. In due time it was finished, I 
and a day appointed for a simple rite of dedication. 

On the preceding evening, after Adam Forrester had | 
taken leave of his mistress, he looked back toward the 1 
portal of her dwelling and felt a strange thrill of fear, for 
he imagined that as the setting sunbeams faded from her 
figure she was exhaling away, and that something of her 


THE LILY’S QUEST 


503 


ethereal substance was withdrawn with each lessening 
gleam of light. With his farewell glance a shadow had 
fallen over the portal, and Lilias was invisible. His fore- 
boding spirit deemed it an omen at the time, and so it 
proved; for the sweet earthly form by which the Lily had 
been manifested to the world was found lifeless the next 
morning in the temple with her head resting on her arms, 
which were folded upon the slab of dark-veined marble. 
The chill winds of the earth had long since breathed a 
blight into this beautiful flower; so that a loving hand had 
now transplanted it to blossom brightly in the garden of 
Paradise. 

But alas for the temple of happiness! In his unuttera- 
ble grief Adam Forrester had no purpose more at heart 
than to convert this temple of many delightful hopes into 
a tomb and bury his dead mistress there. And, lo! a 
wonder! Digging a grave beneath the temple’s marble 
floor, the sexton found no virgin earth such as was meet 
to receive the maiden’s dust, but an ancient sepulchre in 
which were treasured up the bones of generations that 
had died long ago. Among those forgotten ancestors 
was the Lily to be laid; and when the funeral procession 
brought Lilias thither in her coffin, they beheld old Wal- 
ter Gascoigne standing beneath the dome of the temple 
with his cloak of pall and face of darkest gloom, and 
wherever that figure might take its stand the spot would 
seem a sepulchre. He watched the mourners as they low- 
ered the coffin down. 

“And so,” said he to Adam Forrester, with the strange 
smile in which his insanity was wont to gleam forth, 
“ you have found no better foundation for your happiness 
than on a grave?” 


604 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


But as the shadow of Affliction spoke, a vision of hope 
and joy had its birth in Adam’s mind even from the old 
man’s taunting words, for then he knew what was betokened 
by the parable in which the Lily and himself Had acted, 
and the mystery of life and death was opened to him. 

‘Joy! joy!” he cried, throwing his arms toward heaven 
“ On a grave be the site of our temple, and now our hap- 
piness is for eternity.” 

With those words a ray of sunshine broke through the 
dismal sky and glimmered down into the sepulchre, while 
at the same moment the shape of old Walter Gascoigne 
stalked drearily away, because his gloom, symbolic of all 
earthly sorrow, might no longer abide there, now that 
the darkest riddle of humanity was read. 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 

[ “Spent the whole afternoon in a ramble to the sea-shore 
near Phillips’s Beach. A beautiful, warm, sunny afternoon, 
the very pleasantest day, probably, that there has been in the 
whole course of the year. People at work, harvesting, with- 
out their coats. Cocks, with their squad of hens in the grass- 
fields, hunting grasshoppers, chasing them eagerly with out- 
spread wings, appearing to take much interest in the sport, 
apart from the profit. Other hens picking up the ears of In- 
dian Corn. Grasshoppers, flies, and flying insects of all sorts 
are more abundant in these warm autumnal days than I have 
seen them at any other time. Yellow butterflies flutter about 
in the sunshine, singly, by pairs, or more, and are wafted on 
the gentle gales. The crickets begin to sing early in the after- 
noon, and sometimes a locust may be heard. In some warm 
spots, a pleasant buzz of many insects. 

Crossed the fields near Brookhouse’s villa, and came upon a 
long beach, — at least a mile long, I should think, — terminated 
by craggy rocks at either end, and backed by a high broken 
bank, the grassy summit of which, year by year, is continually 
breaking away, and precipitated to the bottom. At the foot 
of the bank, in some parts, is a vast number of pebbles and 
paving-stones, rolled up thither by -the sea long ago. The 
beach is of a brown sand, with hardly any pebbles intermixed 
upon it. When the tide is part way down, there is a margin 
of several yards from the water’s edge, along the whole mile 
length of the beach, which glistens like a mirror, and reflects 
objects, and shines bright in the sunshine, the sand being wet 
to that distance from the water. Above this margin the sand 
is not wet, and grows less and less damp the farther towards 
the bank you keep. In some places your footstep is perfectly 
implanted, showing the whole shape, and the square toe, and 
every nail in the heel of your boot. Elsewhere, the impression 
is imperfect, and even when you stamp, you cannot imprint 
the whole. As you tread a dry spot flashes around your step, 
and grows moist as you lift your foot again. Pleasant to 
pass along this extensive walk, watching the surf-wave; how 
sometimes it seems to make a feint of breaking, but dies away 
ineffectually, merely kissing the strand ; then, after many such 

505 


506 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


abortive efforts, gathers itself, and forms a high wall, and 
rolls onward, heightening and heightening without foam at 
the summit of the green line, and at last throws itself fiercely 
on the beach, with a loud roar, the spray flying above. As 
you walk along, you are preceded by a flock of twenty or 
thirty beach birds, which are seeking, I suppose, for food on 
the margin of the surf, yet seem to be merely sporting, chas- 
ing the sea as it retires, and running up before the impending 
wave. Sometimes they let it bear them off their feet, and 
float lightly on its breaking summit ; sometimes they flutter 
and seem to rest on the feathery spray. They are little birds 
with gray backs and snow-white breasts ; their images may be 
seen in the wet sand almost or quite as distinctly as the real- 
ity. Their legs are long. As you draw near, they take a 
flight of a score of yards or more, and then recommence their 
dalliance with the surf-wave. You may behold their multi- 
tudinous little tracks all along your way. Before you reach the 
end of the beach, you become quite attached to these little sea- 
birds, and take much interest in their occupations. After 
passing in one direction, it is pleasant then to retrace your 
footsteps. Your tracks being all traceable, you may recall 
the whole mood and occupation of your mind during your 
first passage. Here you turned somewhat aside to pick up 
a shell that you saw near the water’s edge. Here you exam- 
ined a long sea-weed, and trailed its length after you for a 
considerable distance. Here the effect of the wide sea struck 
you suddenly. Here you fronted the ocean, looking at a sail, 
distant in the sunny blue. Here you looked at some plant on 
the bank. Here some vagary of mind seems to have be- 
wildered you ; for your tracks go round and round, and inter- 
change each other without visible reason. Here you picked up 
pebbles and skipped them upon the water. Here you wrote 
names and drew faces with a razor sea-shell in the sand. 

After leaving the beach, clambered over crags, all shattered 
and tossed about everyhow ; in some parts curiously worn 
and hollowed out, almost into caverns. The rocks, shagged 
with sea-weed, — in some places, a thick carpet of sea-weed 
laid over the pebbles, into which your foot would sink. Deep 
tanks among these rocks, which the sea replenishes at high 
tide, and then leaves the bottom all covered with various sorts 
of sea-plants, as if it were some sea-monster’s private garden. 
I saw a crab in one of them ; five-fingers, too. From the edge 
of the rocks, you may look off into the deep, deep water, even 
at low tide. Among the rocks, I found a great bird, whether 
a wild-goose, a loon, or an albatross, I scarcely know. It was 
in such a position that I almost fancied it might be asleep, and 
therefore drew near softly, lest it should take flight : but it 
was dead, and stirred not when I touched it. Sometimes a 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 


507 


dead fish was cast up. A ledge of rocks, with a beacon upon 
it, looking like a mounment erected to those who have perished 
by shipwreck. The smoked, extempore fire-place, where a 
party cooked their fish. About midway on the beach, a fresh- 
water brooklet flows towards the sea. Where it leaves the 
land, it is quite a rippling little current ; but, in flowing across 
the sand, it grows shallower and more shallow, and at last is 
quite lost, and dies in the effort to carry its little tribute to the 
main N ” — American Note-Books , p. 102.] 

It must be a spirit much unlike my own which can 
keep itself in health and vigor without, sometimes steal- 
ing from the sultry sunshine of the world to plunge into 
the cool bath of solitude. At intervals, and not infre- 
quent ones, the forest and the ocean summon me — one 
with the roar of its waves, the other with the murmur 
of its boughs — forth from the haunts of men. But I 
must wander many a mile ere I could stand beneath the 
shadow of even one primeval tree, much less be lost 
among the multitude of hoary trunks and hidden from the 
earth and sky by the mystery of darksome foliage. Noth- 
ing is within my daily reach more like a forest than the 
acre or two of woodland near some suburban farmhouse. 
When, therefore, the yearning for seclusion becomes a 
necessity within me, I am drawn to the seashore which 
extends its line of rude rocks and seldom trodden sands 
for leagues around our bay. Setting forth at my last 
ramble on a September morning, I bound myself with a 
hermit’s vow to interchange no thoughts with man or 
woman, to share no social pleasure, but to derive all 
that day’s enjoyment from shore and sea and sky, from 
my soul’s communion with these, and from fantasies and 
recollections or anticipated realities. Surely here is 
enough to feed a human spirit for a single day. Fare- 
well, then, busy world! Till your evening lights shall 


508 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


shine along the street — till they gleam upon my sea- 
flushed face as I tread homeward — free me from your 
ties, and let me be a peaceful outlaw. 

Highways and cross-paths are hastily traversed, and, 
clambering down a crag, I find myself at the extremity 
of a long beach. How gladly does the spirit leap forth 
and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full ex- 
tent of the broad, blue, sunny deep ! A greeting and an 
homage to the sea! I descend over its margin and dip 
my hand into the wave that meets me, and bathe my 
brow. That far-resounding roar is Ocean’s voice of wel- 
come. His salt breath brings a blessing along with it. 
Now let us pace together — the reader’s fancy arm in 
arm with mine — this noble beach, which extends a mile 
or more from that craggy promontory to yonder rampart 
of broken rocks. In front, the sea; in the rear a precipi- 
tous bank the grassy verge of which is breaking away 
year after year, and flings down its tufts of verdure 
upon the barrenness below. The beach itself, is a broad 
space of sand, brown and sparkling, with hardly any peb- 
bles intermixed. Near the water’s edge there is a wet 
margin, which glistens brightly in the sunshine and re- 
flects objects like a mirror, and as we tread along the 
glistening border a dry spot flashes around each foot- 
step, but grows moist again as we lift our feet. In some 
spots the sand receives a complete impression of the sole, 
square toe and all; elsewhere it is of such marble firm- 
ness that we must stamp heavily to leave a print even of 
the iron shod heel. Along the whole of this extensive 
beach gambols the surf-wave. Now it makes a feint of 
dashing onward in a fury, yet dies away with a meek 
murmur and does but kiss the strand: now, after many 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 


509 


such abortive efforts, it rears itself up in an unbroken 
line, heightening as it advances, without a speck of foam 
on its green crest. With how fierce a roar it flings it- 
self forward and rushes far up the beach! 

' As I threw my eyes along the edge of the surf I re- 
member that I was startled, as Robinson Crusoe might 
have been, by the sense that human life was within the 
magic circle of my solitude. Afar off in the remote distance 
of the beach, appearing like sea-nymphs, or some airier 
thing such as might tread upon the feathery spray, was 
a group of girls. Hardly had I beheld them when they 
passed into the shadow of the rocks and vanished. To 
comfort myself — for truly I would fain have gazed a 
while longer — I made acquaintance with a flock of beach 
birds. These little citizens of the sea and air preceded 
me by about a stone’s throw along the strand, seeking, 
I suppose, for food upon its margin. Yet, with a philos- 
ophy which mankind would do well to imitate, they drew 
a continual pleasure from their toil for a subsistence. 
The sea was each little bird’s great playmate. They 
chased it downward as it swept back, and again ran up 
swiftly before the impending wave, which sometimes 
overtook them and bore them off their feet. But they 
floated as lightly as one of their own feathers on the 
breaking crest. In their airy flutterings they seemed to 
rest on the evanescent spray. Their images — long- 
legged little figures with gray backs and snowy bosoms 
— were seen as distinctly as the realities in the mirror 
of the glistening strand. As I advanced they flew a score 
or two of yards, and, again alighting, recommenced their 
dalliance with the surf-wave; and thus they bore me com- 
pany along the beach, the types of pleasant fantasies, till 


510 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


at its extremity they took wing over the ocean and were 
gone. After forming a friendship with these small surf 
spirits, it is really worth a sigh to find no memorial of 
them save their multitudinous little tracks in the sand. 

When we have paced the length of the beach, it is 
pleasant and not unprofitable to retrace our steps and re- 
call the whole mood and occupation of the mind dur- 
ing the former passage. Our tracks, being all discerni- 
ble, will guide us with an observing consciousness'through 
every unconscious wandering of thought and fancy. 
Here we followed the surf in its reflux to pick up a shell 
which the sea seemed loth to relinquish. Here we found 
a seaweed with an immense brown leaf, and trailed it 
behind us by its long snakelike stalk. Here we seized a 
live horseshoe by the tail, and counted the many claws of 
that queer monster. Here we dug into the sand for peb- 
bles, and skipped them upon the surface of the water. 
Here we wet our feet while examining a jelly fish which 
the waves, having just tossed it up, now sought to snatch 
avyay again, here we trod along the brink of a fresVr- 
water brooklet which flows across the beach, becoming 
shallower and more shallow, till at last it sinks into the 
sand and perishes in the effort to bear its little tribute to 
the main. Here some vagary appears to have bewil- 
dered us, for our tracks go round and round, and are 
confusedly intermingled, as if we had found a labyrinth 
upon the level beach. And here amid our idle pastime we 
sat down upon almost the only stone that breaks the sur- 
face of the sand, and were lost in an unlooked for and 
overpowering conception of the majesty and awfulness 
of the great deep. Thus, by tracking our footprints in 
the sand, we track our own nature in its wayward course. 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 


511 


and steal a glance upon it when it never dreams of being 
so observed. Such glances always make us wiser. 

This extensive beach affords room for another pleasant 
pastime. With your staff you may write verses — love 
verses if they please you best — and consecrate them with 
a woman’s name. Here, too, may be inscribed thoughts,, 
feelings, desires, warm outgushings from the heart’s se- 
cret places, which you would not pour upon the sand 
without the certainty that almost ere the sky has looked 
upon them the sea will wash them out. Stir not hence 
till the record be effaced. Now (for there is room 
enough on your canvas) draw huge faces — huge as that 
of the Sphynx on Egyptian sands — and fit them with 
bodies of corresponding immensity and legs that might 
stride halfway to yonder island. Child’s play becomes 
magnificent on so grand a scale. But, after all, the most 
fascinating employment is simply to write your name ii? 
the sand. Draw the letters gigantic, so that two stride^ 
may barely measure them, and three for the long strokes; 
cut deep, that the record may be permanent. Statesmen 
and warriors and poets have spent their strength in no 
better cause than this. Is it accomplished? Return, then* 
in an hour or two, and seek for this mighty record of a 
name. The sea will have swept over it, even as time 
rolls its effacing waves over the names of statesmen and 
warriors and poets. Hark! the surf-wave laughs at you. 

Passing from the beach, 1 began to clamber over the 
crags, making my difficult way among the ruins of a 
rampart shattered and broken by the assaults of a fierce 
enemy. The rocks rise in every variety of attitude. 
Some of them have their feet in the foam and are shag- 
ged halfway upward with seaweed; some have been hoi- 


• r 

512 TWICE-TOLD TALES 

lowed almost into caverns by the unwearied toil of the 
sea, which can afford to spend centuries in wearing away 
a rock, or even polishing a pebble. One huge rock as- 
cends in monumental shape, with a face like a giant’s 
tombstone, on which the veins resemble inscriptions, but 
in an unknown tongue. We will fancy them the forgot- 
ten characters of an antediluvian race, or else that Na- 
ture’s own hand has here recorded a '"mystery which, 
could I read her language, would make mankind the wiser 
and the happier. How many a thing has troubled me 
with that same idea! Pass on and leave it unexplained. 
Here is a narrow avenue which might seem to have been 
hewn through the very heart of an enormous crag, af- 
fording passage for the rising sea to thunder back and 
forth, filling it with tumultuous foam and then leaving its 
floor of black pebbles bare and glistening. In this chasm 
there was once an intersecting vein of softer stone, which 
the waves have gnawed away piecemeal, while the granite 
walls remain entire on either side. How sharply and with 
what harsh clamor does the sea rake back the pebbles 
as it momentarily withdraws into its own depths! At in- 
tervals the floor of the chasm is left nearly dry, but anon, 
at the outlet, two or three great waves are seen strug- 
gling to get in at once; two hit the walls athwart, while 
one rushes straight through, and all three thunder as if 
with rage and triumph. They heap the chasm with a 
snowdrift of foam and spray. While watching this scene 
I can never rid myself of the idea that a monster endowed 
with life and fierce energy is striving to burst his way 
through the narrow pass. And what a contrast to look 
through the stormy chasm and catch a glimpse of the 
calm, -bright sea beyond! 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 


513 


Many interesting discoveries may be made among these 
broken cliffs. Once, for example, I found a dead seal 
which a recent tempest had tossed into the nook of the 
rocks, where his shaggy carcase lay rolled in a heap of 
eel grass as if the sea monster sought to hide himself from 
my eye. Another time a shark seemed on the point of 
leaping from the surf to swallow me, nor did I wholly 
without dread approach near enough to ascertain that 
the man-eater had already met his own death from some 
fisherman in the bay. In the same ramble I encountered 
a bird — a large gray bird — but whether a loon or a wild 
goose or the identical albatross of the Ancient Mariner 
was beyond my ornithology to decide. It reposed so 
naturally on a bed of dry seaweed, with its head beside its 
wing, that I almost fancied it alive, and trod softly lest 
it should suddenly spread its wings skyward. But the 
seabird would soar among the clouds no more, nor ride 
upon its native waves ; so I drew near and pulled out one 
of its mottled tail feathers for a remembrance. Another 
day I discovered an immense bone wedged into a chasm 
of the rocks; it was at least ten feet long, curved like a 
scimitar, bejewelled with barnacles and small shell-fish 
and partly covered with a growth of seaweed. Some 
leviathan of former ages had used this ponderous mass 
as a jaw bone. Curiosities of a minuter order may be 
observed in a deep reservoir which is replenished with 
water at every tide, but becomes a lake among the crags 
save when the sea is at its height. At the bottom of this 
rocky basin grow marine plants, some of which tower high 
beneath the water and cast a shadow in the sunshine. 
Small fishes dart to and fro and hide themselves among 
the seaweed; there is also a solitary crab who appears to 


514 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


lead the life of a hermit, communing with none of the 
other denizens of the place, and likewise several five- 
fingers ; for I know no other name than that which chil- 
dren give them. If your imagination be at all accus- 
tomed to such freaks, you may look down into the depths 
of this pool and fancy it the mysterious depth of ocean. 
But where are the hulks and the scattered timbers of 
sunken ships? Where the treasures that old Ocean hoards? 
Where the corroded cannon? Where the corpses and 
skeletons of seamen who went down in storm and battle? 

On the day of my last ramble — it was a September 
day, yet as warm as summer — what should I behold as I 
approached the above described basin but three girls sit- 
ting on its margin and — yes, it is veritably so — laving 
their snowy feet in the summer water? These, these are 
the warm realities of those three visionary shapes that 
flitted from me on the beach. Hark their merry voices 
as they toss up the water with their feet! They have not 
seen me. I must shrink behind this rock and steal away ' 
again. 


In honest truth, vowed to solitude as I am, there is 
something in this encounter that makes the heart flut- 
ter with a strangely pleasant sensation. I know these 
girls to be realities of flesh and blood, yet, glancing at 
them so briefly they mingle like kindred creatures with 
the ideal beings of my mind. It is pleasant, likewise, to 
gaze down from some high crag and watch a group of 
children gathering pebbles and pearly shells and playing 
with the surf as with old Ocean’s hoary beard. Nor does 
it infringe upon my seclusion to see yonder boat at 
anchor off the shore swinging dreamily to and fro and 
rising and sinking with the alternate swell, while the crew 




FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 


515 


— four gentlemen in roundabout jackets — are busy, with 
their fishing lines. But, with an inward antipathy and a 
headlong flight do I eschew the presence of any medita- 
| tive stroller like myself, known by his pilgrim staff, his 
sauntering step, his shy demeanor, his observant yet ab- 
stracted eye. 

From such a man as if another self had scared me I 
scramble hastily over the rocks, and take refuge in a 
nook which many a secret hour has given me a right to 
call my own. I would do battle for it even with the 
churl that should produce the title-deeds. Have not my 
musings melted into its rocky walls and sandy floor and 
made them a portion of myself? It is a recess in the line 
of cliffs, walled round by a rough, high precipice which 
almost encircles and shuts in a little space of sand. In 
front the sea appears as between the pillars of a portal; 
in the rear the precipice is broken and intermixed with 
earth which gives nourishment not only to clinging and 
twining shrubs, but to trees that grip the rock with their 
naked roots and seem to struggle hard for footing and for 
soil enough to live upon. These are fir trees, but oaks 
hang their heavy branches from above, and throw down 
acorns on the beach, and §shed their withering foliage 
upon the waves. At this autumnal season the precipice 
is decked with variegated splendor. Trailing wreaths of 
I scarlet flaunt from the summit downward; tufts of yel- 
low flowering shrubs and rose bushes, with their reddened 
leaves and glossy seed berries, sprout from each crevice; 
at every glance I detect some new light or shade of 
beauty, all contrasting with the stern gray rock. A rill 
of water trickles down the cliffs and fills a little cistern 
near the base. I drain it at a draught, and find it fresh and 


516 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


) 


pure. This recess shall be my dining hall. And what 
the feast? A few biscuits made savory by soaking them 
in sea water, a tuft of samphire gathered from the beach, 
•and an apple for the dessert. By this time the little rill 
Las filled its reservoir again, and as I quaff it I thank God 
more heartily than for a civic banquet that he gives me 
the healthful appetite* to- make a feast of bread and water. 

Dinner being over, I threw myself at length upon the 
sand and, basking in the sunshine, let my mind disport it- 
self at will. The walls of this my hermitage have no 
tongue to tell my follies, though I sometimes fancy that 
they have ears to hear them and a soul to sympathize. 
There is a magic in this spot. Dreams haunt its pre- 
cincts and flit around me in broad sunlight, nor require 
that sleep shall blindfold me to real objects ere these be 
visible. Here can I frame a story of two lovers, and make 
their shadows live before me and be mirrored in the tran- 
quil water as they tread along the sand, leaving no foot- 
prints. Here, should I will it, I can summon up a single 
•shade and be myself her lover. Yes, dreamer, but your 
lonely heart will be the colder for such fancies. Some- 
times, too, the Past comes back, and finds me here, and in 
her train come faces which *'ere gladsome when I knew 
them, yet seem not gladsome now. Would that my hid- 
ing place were lonelier, so that the Past might not find 
me! Get ye all gone, old friends, and let me listen to the 
murmur of the sea — a melancholy voice, but less sad than 
yours. Of what mysteries is it telling? Of sunken ships 
and whereabouts they lie? Of islands afar and undis- 
covered whose tawny children are unconscious of other 
islands and of continents, and deem the stars of heaven 
their nearest neighbors? Nothing of all this. What, 


FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 


51 ? 


then? Has it talked for so many ages and meant nothing 
all the while? No; for those ages find utterance in the 
sea’s unchanging voice, and warn the listener to withdraw 
his interest from mortal vicissitudes and let the infinite 
idea of eternity pervade his soul. This is wisdom, and 
therefore will I spend the next half hour in shaping little 
boats of driftwood and launching them on voyages across 
the cove, with the feather of a sea gull for a sair. If the 
voice of ages tell me true, this is as wise an occupation 
as to build ships of five hundred tons and launch them 
forth upon the main, bound to “ Far Cathay.” Yet 
how would the merchant sneer at me! 

And, after all, can such philosophy be true? Methinks 
I could find a thousand arguments against it. Well, then,, 
let yonder shaggy rock mid-deep in the surf — see! he is 
somewhat wrathful; he rages and roars and foams, — 
let that tall rock be my antagonist, and let me exercise 
my oratory like him of Athens who bandied words with 
an angry sea and got the victory. My maiden speech is 
a triumphant one, for the gentleman in seaweed has noth- 
ing to offer in reply save an immitigable roaring. His 
voice, indeed, will be heard a long while after mine is 
hushed. Once more I shout and the cliffs reverberate 
the sound. Oh, what joy for a shy man to feel himself so 
solitary that he may lift his voice to its highest pitch 
without hazard of a listener ! — But, hush ! Be silent, my 
good friend! Whence comes that stifled laughter? It 
was musical, but how should there be such music in my 
solitude? Looking upward, I catch a glimpse of three 
faces peeping from the summit of the cliff like angels 
between me and their native sky. Ah, fair girls! you may 
make yourself merry at my eloquence, but it was my 


„18 TWICE-TOLl> tales 

turn to smile when I saw your white feet in the pool. 
Eet us keep each other’s secrets. 

The sunshine has now passed from my hermitage, ex- 
cept a gleam upon the sand just where it meets the sea. 

A crowd of gloomy fantasies will come and haunt me if 
I tarry longer here in the darkening twilight of these 
gray rocks. This is a dismal place in some moods of the j 
mind. Climb we, therefore, the precipice, and pause a ' 
moment on the brink, gazing down into that hollow cham- 
ber by the deep where we have been what few can be — 1 
sufficient to our own pastime. Yes, say the word outright, ^ 
self-sufficient to our own happiness. 'How lonesome looks 1 
the recess now, and dreary too, like all other spots where 1 
happiness has been! There lies my shadow in the de- ■* 
parting sunshine with its head upon the sea. I will pelt ] 
it with pebbles. A hit ! a hit ! I clap my hands in tri- j 
umph, and see my shadow clapping its unreal hands and 
•claiming the triumph for itself. What a simpleton must ; 
I have been all day, since my own shadow makes a mock : 
of my fooleries! 

Homeward! Homeward! It is time to hasten home. ; 
Tt is time — it is time; for as the sun sinks over the west- I 
crn wave the sea grows melancholy and the surf has a 
saddened tone. The distant sails appear astray and not ■ 
of earth in their remoteness amid the desolate waste. 
My spirit wanders forth afar, but finds no resting-place j 
and comes shivering back. It is time that I were hence. 
But grudge me not the day that has been spent in seclu- 
sion which yet was not solitude, since the great sea has i 
been my companion, and the little seabirds my friends, 1 
and the wind has told me his secrets, and airy shapes have 
flitted around me in my hermitage. Such companionship 


519 


\ 

FOOTPRINTS ON THE SEASHORE 

works an effect upon a man’s character as if he had been, 
j) admitted to the society of creatures that are not mortal. 

And when, at noon tide I tread the crowded streets, the 
| influence of this day will still be felt; so that I shall walk 
among men kindly and as a brother, with affection and 
I sympathy, but yet shall not melt into the indistinguisha- 
I ble mass of human kind. I shall think my own thougnts 
and feel my own emotions and possess my individuality 

I unviolated. 

But it is good at the eve of such a day to feel and know 
that there are men and women in the world. That feel- 
ing and that knowledge are mine at this moment, for on 
the shore, far below me, the fishing party have landed 
j; from their skiff, and are cooking their scaly prey by a 
If fire of driftwood kindled in the angle of two rude rocks, 
| The three visionary girls are likewise there. In the 
i deepening twilight, while the surf is dashing near their 
f hearth, the ruddy gleam of the fire throws a strange air 
I of comfort over the wild cove, bestrewn as it is with peb- 
I bles and seaweed and exposed to the “ melancholy main.” 

I Moreover, as the smoke climbs up the precipice, it brings 
| with it a savory smell from a pan of fried fish and a black 
’ kettle of chowder, and reminds me that my dinner was 
i nothing but bread and water and a tuft of samphire and 
I an apple* Methinks the party might find room for an- 
il other guest at that flat rock which serves them for a 
\ table; and if spoons be scarce I could pick up a clam 
J shell on the beach. They see me now; and — the bless- 
;! ing of a hungry man upon him! — one of them sends up 
a hospitable shout: “ Halloo, Sir Solitary! Come down 
and sup with us!” The ladies wave their handkerchiefs 


520 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Can I decline? No; and be it owned, after all my solitary 
joys, that this is the sweetest moment of a day by ;Hfc 
seashore 






fcUWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD 

[“A change from a gay young girl to an old woman; the 
melancholy events, the effects of which have clustered around 
her character, and gradually imbued it with their influence, till 
she becomes a lover o£ sick-chambers, taking pleasure in re- 
ceiving dying breaths and in laying out the dead ; also having 
her mind full of funeral reminiscences, and possessing more 
acquaintances beneath the burial turf than above it.” Ameri- 
can Note-Books , p. 21.] 

There is hardly a more difficult exercise of fancy than, 
while gazing at a figure of melancholy age, to recreate 
its youth, and without entirely obliterating the identity 
of form and features to restore those graces which Time 
has snatched away. Some old people — especially women 
— so age-worn and woful are they, seem never to 
have been young and gay. It is easier to conceive that 
such gloomy phantoms were sent into the world as with- 
ered and decrepit as we behold them now, with sympa- 
thies only for pain and grief, to watch at deathbeds and 
weep at funerals. Even the sable garments of their 
widowhood appear essential to their existence; all their 
attributes combine to render them darksome shadows 
creeping strangely amid the sunshine of human life. Yet 
it is no unprofitable task to take one of these doleful 
creatures and set Fancy resolutely at work to brighten 
the dim eye, and darken the silvery locks, and paint the 
ashen cheek with rose color, and repair the shrunken 
and crazy form, till a dewy maiden shall be seen in the 

521 


522 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


old matron's elbow chair. The miracle being wrought, 
then let the years roll back again, each sadder than the 
last, and the whole weight of age and sorrow settle down 
upon the youthful figure. Wrinkles and furrows, the 
handwriting of Time, may thus be deciphered and found 
to contain deep lessons of thought and feeling. 

Such profit might be derived by a skilful observer from 
my much respected friend the Widow Toothaker, a nurse 
of great repute who has breathed the atmosphere of sick 
chambers and dying breaths these forty years. See! she 
sits cowering over her lonesome hearth with her gown 
and upper petticoat drawn upward, gathering thriftily 
into her person the whole warmth of the fire which now 
at nightfall begins to dissipate the autumnal chill of her 
chamber. The blaze quivers capriciously in front, alter- 
nately glimmering into the deepest chasms of her wrin- 
kled visage, and then permitting a ghostly dimness to 
mar the outlines of her venerable figure. And Nurse 
Toothaker holds a teaspoon in her right hand with which 
to stir up the contents of a tumbler in her left, whence 
steams a vapory fragrance abhorred of temperance so- 
cieties. Now she sips, now stirs, now sips again. 
Her sad old heart has need to be revived by the rich in- 
fusion of Geneva which is mixed half and half with hot 
water in the tumbler. All day long she has been sitting 
by a death pillow, and quitted it for her home only when 
the spirit of her patient left the clay and went homeward 
too. But now are her melancholy meditations cheered 
and her torpid blood warmed and her shoulders light- 
ened of at least twenty ponderous years by a draught 
from the true fountain of youth in a case bottle. It is 
strange that men should deem that fount a fable, when 


EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD 


523 


its liquor fills more bottles than the Congress water. . Sip 
it again, good nurse, and see whether a second draught 
will not take off another score of years, and perhaps ten 
more, and show us in your high-backed chair the bloom- 
ing damsel who plighted troths with Edward Fane. Get 
you gone, Age and Widowhood! Come back, unwedded 
Youth! But, alas! the charm will not work. In spite 
of Fancy's most potent spell, I can see only an old dame 
cowering over the fire, a picture of decay and desolation 
while the November blast roars at her in the chimney 
and fitful showers rush suddenly against the window. 

Yet there was a time when Rose Grafton — such was 
the pretty maiden name of Nurse Toothaker — possessed 
beauty that would have gladdened this dim and dismal 
chamber as with sunshine. It won for her the heart of 
Edward Fane, who has since made so great a figure in 
the world, and is now a grand old gentleman with pow- 
dered hair and as gouty as a lord. These early lovers 
thought to have walked hand in hand through life. They 
had wept together for Edward’s little sister Mary, whom 
Rose tended in her sickness — partly because she was 
the sweetest child that ever lived or died, but more for 
love of him. She was but three years old. Being such 
an infant, Death could not embody his terrors in her 
little corpse; nor did Rose fear to touch the dead child’s 
brow, though chill, as she curled the silken hair around it, 
nor to take her tiny hand and clasp a flower within its 
fingers. Afterward, when she looked through the pane 
of glass in the coffin lid and beheld Mary’s face, it 
seemed not so much like death or life as like a wax work 
wrought into the perfect image of a child asleep and 
dreaming of its mother’s smile. Rose thought her too 


524 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


fair a thing to be hidden in the grave, and wondered that 
an angel did not snatch up little Mary’s coffin and bear 
the slumbering babe to heaven and bid her wake immor- 
tal. But when the sods were laid on little Mary, the 
heart of Rose was troubled. She shuddered at the fan- 
tasy that in grasping the child’s cold fingers her virgin 
hand had exchanged a first greeting with mortality and 
could never lose the earthy taint. How many a greet- 
ing since! But as yet she was a fair young girl with 
the dewdrops of fresh feeling in her bosom, and instead 
of “Rose” — which seemed too mature a name for her 
half-opened beauty — her lover called her “Rosebud.” 

The rosebud was destined never to bloom for Ed- 
ward Fane. His mother was a rich and haughty dame 
with all the aristocratic prejudices of colonial times. 
She scorned Rose Grafton’s humble parentage, and caused 
her son to break his faith, though, had she let him choose, 
he would have prized his Rosebud above the richest dia- 
mond. The lovers parted, and have seldom met again. 
Both may have visited the same mansions, but not at 
the same time, for one was bidden to the festal hall, and 
the other to the sick chamber; he was the guest of Pleas- 
ure and Prosperity, and she of Anguish. Rose, after their 

separation, was long secluded within the dwelling of Mr. 

> 

Toothaker, whom she married with the revengeful hope 
of breaking her false lover’s heart. She went to her 
bridegroom’s arms with bitterer tears, they say, than 
young girls ought to shed at the threshold of the bridal 
chamber. Yet, though her husband’s head was getting 
gray, and his heart had been chilled with an autumnal frost. 
Rose soon began to love him, and wondered at her own 


EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD 


525 


conjugal affection. He was all she had to love; there were 
no children. 

In a year or two poor Mr. Toothaker was visited with 
a wearisome infirmity which settled in his joints and made 
him weaker than a child. He crept forth about his busi- 
ness, and came home at dinner time and eventide, not 
with the manly tread that gladdens a wife’s heart, but 
slowly, feebly, jotting down each dull footstep with a 
melancholy dub of his staff. We must pardon his pretty 
wife if she sometimes blushed to own him. Her visitors, 
when they heard him coming, looked for the appearance 
of some old, old man, but he dragged his nerveless limbs 
into the parlor — and there was Mr. Toothaker! The 
disease increasing, he never went into the sunshine save 
with a staff in his right hand, and his left on his wife’s 
shoulder, bearing heavily downward like a de^d man's 
hand. Thus, a slender woman, still looking maiden-like, 
she supported his tall, broad-chested frame along the 
pathway of their little garden, and plucked the roses for 
her gray-haired husband, and spoke soothingly as to an 
infant. His mind was palsied with his body; its utmost 
energy was peevishness. In a few months more she 
helped him up the staircase with a pause at every step, 
and a longer one upon the landing place, and a heavy 
glance behind as he. crossed the threshold of his cham- 
ber. He knew, poor man ! that the precincts of those 
% 

four walls would thenceforth be his world, his home, 
his tomb, at once a dwelling amd a burial place — till 
he were borne to a darker and a narrower one. But Rose 
was with him in the tomb. He leaned upon her in his 
daily passage from the bed to the chair by the fireside, 
and back again from the weary chair to the joyless bed 


526 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


— his bed and hers, their marriage bed — till even this 
short journey ceased and his head lay all day upon the 
pillow and hers all night beside it. How long poor Mr. 
Toothaker was kept in misery! Death seemed to draw 
near the door, and often to lift the latch, and sometimes 
to thrust his ugly skull into the chamber, nodding to Rose 
and pointing at her husband, but still delayed to. enter. 
“ This bedridden wretch cannot escape me,” quoth Death. 

I will go forth and run a race with the swift and fight a 
battle with the strong, and come back for Toothaker at 
my leisure.” Oh, when the deliverer came so near, in 
the dull anguish of her worn-out sympathies did she never 
long to cry, “Death, come in?” 

But no; we have no right to ascribe such a wish to our 
friend Rose. She never failed in a wife’s duty to her 
poor sick husband. She murmured not, though a glimpse 
of the sunny sky was as strange to her as him. nor an- 
swered peevishly though his complaining accents roused 
her from sweetest dream only to share his wretchedness. 
He knew her faith, yet nourished a cankered jealousy; 
and when the slow disease had chilled all his heart save 
one lukewarm spot which Death’s frozen fingers were 
searching for, his last words were, “ What would my 
Rose have done for her first love, if she has been so 
true and kind to a sick old man like me?” And then 
his poor soul crept away and left the body lifeless, though 
hardly more so than for years before, and Rose a widow, 
though in truth it was the wedding night that widowed 
her. She felt glad, it must be owned, when Mr. Tooth- 
aker was buried, because his corpse had retained such a 
likeness to the man half alive that she hearkened for that 
sad murmur of his voice bidding her shift his pillow. But 


EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD 


527 


all through the next winter, though the grave had held 
him many a month, she fancied him calling from that 
cold bed, “ Rose, Rose! Come put a blanket on my feet! ” 
So now the Rosebud was the widow Toothaker. Her 
troubles had come early, and tedious as they seemed, had 
passed before all her bloom was fled. She was still fair 
enough to captivate a bachelor, or with a widow’s cheer- 
ful gravity she might have won a widower, stealing into 
his heart in the very guise of his dead wife. But the 
widow Toothaker had no such projects. By her watch* 
ings and continual cares her heart had become knit to 
her first husband with a constancy which changed its very 
nature and made her love him for his infirmities, and in- 
firmity for his sake. When the palsied old man was gone, 
even her early lover could not have supplied his place. 
She had dwelt in a sick chamber and been the companion 
of a half dead wretch till she could scarcely breathe in a 
free air and felt ill at ease with the healthy and the happy. 
She missed the fragrance of the doctor’s stuff. She 
walked the chamber with a noiseless footfall. If visitors 
came in, she spoke in soft and soothing accents, and was 
startled and shocked by their loud voices. Often in the 
lonesome evening she looked timorously from the fireside 
to the bed, with almost a hope of recognizing a ghastly 
face upon the pillow. Then went her thoughts sadly to 
her husband’s grave. If one impatient throb had wronged 
him in his lifetime, if she had secretly repinec' because her 
buoyant youth was imprisoned with his torpid age, if 
ever while slumbering beside him a treacherous dream had 
admitted another into her heart, yet the sick man had 
been preparing a revenge which the dead now claimed. 
On his painful pillow he had cast a spell around her, his 


528 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


groans and misery had proved more captivating charms 
than gayety and youthful grace; in his semblance Disease 
itself had won the Rosebud for a bride, nor could his 
death dissolve the nuptials. By that indissoluble bond she 
had gained a home in every sick chamber, and nowhere 
else; there were her brethren and sisters; thither her hus- 
band summoned her with that voice which had seemed 
to issue from the grave of Toothaker. At length she rec- 
ognized her destiny. 

We have beheld her as the maid, the wife, the widow ; 
now we see her in a separate and insulated character: 
she was in all her attributes Nurse Toothaker. And 
Nurse Toothaker alone, with her own shrivelled lips, 
could make known her experience in that capacity. What 
a history might she record of the great sicknesses in 
which she has gone hand in hand with the exterminating 
angel! She remembers when the smallpox hoisted a red 
banner on almost every house along the street. She has 
witnessed when the typhus fever swept off a whole house- 
hold, young and old, all but a lonely mother, who vainly 
shrieked to follow her last loved one. Where would be 
Death’s triumph if none lived to weep! She can speak o.f 
strange maladies that have broken out as if spontaneously, 
but were found to have been imported^ from foreign lands 
with rich silks and other merchandise, the costliest por- 
tion of the cargo. And once, she recollects, the people 
died of what was considered a new pestilence, till the doc- 
tors traced it to the ancient grave of a young girl, who 
thus caused many deaths a hundred years after her own 
burial. Strange that such black mischief should lurk in 
a maiden’s grave! She loves to tell how strong men 
fight with fiery fevers, utterly refusing to give up. their 


EDWARD FANE’S ROSEBUD 


529 


breath, and how consumptive virgins fade out of the 
world, scarcely reluctant, as if their lovers were wooing 
them to a far country. Tell us, thou fearful woman; tell 
us the death secrets. Fain would I search out the mean- 
ing of words faintly gasped with intermingled sobs and 
broken sentences half audibly spoken between earth and 
the judgment seat. 

An awful woman! She is the patron saint of young 
physicians and the bosom friend of old ones. In the man- 
sions where she enters the inmates provide themselves 
black garments; the coffin maker follows her, and the 
bell tolls as she comes away from the threshold. Death 
himself has met her at so many a bedside that he puts 
forth his bony hand to greet Nurse Toothaker. She is 
an awful woman. And oh, is it conceivable that this 
handmaid of human infirmity and affliction — so darkly 
stained, so thoroughly imbued with all that is saddest 
in the doom of mortals — can ever again be bright and 
gladsome even though bathed in the sunshine of eternity? 
By her long communion with woe has she not forfeited 
her inheritance of immortal joy? Does any germ of 
bliss survive within her? 

Hark! an eager knocking at Nurse Toothaker’s door. 
She starts from her drowsy reverie, sets aside the empty 
tumbler and teaspoon, and lights a lamp at the dim em- 
bers of the fire. Rap, rap, rap! again, and she hurries 
down the staircase, wondering which of her friends can 
be at death’s door now, since there is such an earnest 
messenger at Nurse Toothaker’s. Again the peal re- 
sounds just as her hand is on the lock. “ Be quick, Nurse 
Toothaker!” cries a man on the door step. “Old Gen- 
eral Fane is taken with the gout in his stomach and has 


530 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


sent for you to watch by his deathbed. Make haste for 
there is no time to lose.” “Fane! Edward Fane! And 
has he sent for me at last? I am ready. I will get on 
my cloak and begone. So,” adds the sable-gowned ashen- 
visaged, funereal old figure, “ Edward Fane remembers 
his Rosebud.” 

Our question is answered. There is a germ of bliss 
within her. Fler long-hoarded constancy, her memory of 
the bliss that was remaining amid the glo.om of her after- 
life, like a sweet-smelling flower in a coffin, is a symbol 
that all may be renewed. In some happier clime the 
Rosebud may revive again with all the dewdrops in iti 
bosom. 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 


A FAERY LEGEND. 

I have sometimes produced a singular and not unpleas- 
ing effect, so far as my own mind was concerned, by 
imagining a train of incidents in which the spirit and mechan- 
ism of the faery legend should be combined with the charac- 
ters and manners of familiar life. In the little tale which 
follows a subdued tinge of the wild and wonderful is thrown 
over a sketch of New England personages and scenery, yet, 
it is hoped, without entirely obliterating the sober hues 
of nature. Rather than a story of events claiming to be real, 
it may be considered as an allegory such as the writers of 
the last century would have expressed in the shape of an 
Eastern tale, but to which I have endeavored to give a more 
lifelike warmth than could be infused into those fanciful pro- 
ductions. 

In the twilight of a summer eve a tall dark figure over 
which long and remote travel had thrown an outlandish 
aspect was entering a village not in “ faery londe,” but within 
our own familiar boundaries. The staff on which this trav- 
eller leaned had been his companion from the spot where it 
grew in the jungles of Hindostan; the hat that overshadowed 
his sombre brow had shielded him from the suns of Spain ; 
but his cheek had been blackened by the red-hot wind of an 


531 


532 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


Arabian desert and had felt the frozen breath of an Arctic 
region. Long sojourning amid wild and dangerous men he 
still wore beneath his vest the ataghan which he had once 
struck into the throat of a Turkish robber. In every foreign 
clime he had lost something of his New England characteris- 
tics, and perhaps from every people he had unconsciously 
borrowed a new peculiarity ; so that when the world-wanderer 
again trod the street of his native village it is no wonder 
that he passed unrecognized, though exciting tne gaze and 
curiosity of all. 

Ye*, as his arm casually touched that of a young woman 
who was wending her way to an evening lecture, she started 
and almost uttered a cry. 

“ Ralph Cranfield ! ” was the name that she half articu- 
lated. 

“ Can that be my old playmate, Faith Egerton ? ” thought 
the traveller, looking around at her figure, but without 
pausing. 

Ralph Cranfield from his youth upward had felt himself 
marked out for a high destiny. He had imbibed the idea 
— we say not whether it were revealed to him by witch- 
craft or in a dream of prophecy, or that his brooding fancy 
had palmed its own dictates upon him as the oracles of a 
sybil, but he had imbibed the idea, and held it firmest 
among his articles of faith — that three marvellous events 
of his life were to be confirmed to him by three signs. 

The first of these three fatalities, and perhaps the one on 
which his youthful imagination had dwelt most fondly, 
was the discovery of the maid who alone of all the maids 
on earth could make him happy by her love. He was to 
roam around the world till he should meet a beautiful 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 


533 


woman wearing on her bosom a jewel in the shape of a 
heart — whether of pearl or ruby or emerald or carbuncle 
or a changeful opal, or perhaps a priceless diamond, Ralph 
Cranfield little cared, so long as it were a heart of one 
peculiar shape. On encountering this lovely stranger he 
was bound to address her thus : “ Maiden, I have brought 

you a heavy heart. May I rest its weight on you?” And 
if she were his fated bride — if their kindred souls were 
destined to form a union here below which all eternity should 
only bind more closely — she would reply, with her finger 
on the heart-shaped jewel, “ This token which I have worn 
so long is the assurance that you may.” 

And, secondly, Ralph Cranfield had a firm belief that there 
was a mighty treasure hidden somewhere in the earth of 
which the burial-place would be revealed to none but him. 
When his feet should press upon the mysterious spot, there 
would be a hand before him pointing downward — whether 
carved of marble or hewn in gigantic dimensions on the 
side of a rocky precipiece, or perchance a hand of flame 
in empty air, he could not tell, but at least he would discern 
a hand, the forefinger pointing downward, and beneath it 
the Latin word “ Effode” — “Dig?” And, digging there- 
abouts, the gold in coin or ingots, the precious stones, or 
of whatever else the treasure might consist, would be certain 
to reward his toil. 

The third and last of the miraculous events in the life 
of this high-destined man was to be the attainment of ex- 
tensive influence and sway over his fellow-creatures. Whether 
he were to be a king and founder of a hereditary throne, 
or the victorious leader of a people contending for their 
freedom, or the apostle of a purified and regenerated faith, 
was left for futurity to show. As messengers of the sigr. 


534 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


by which Ralph Cranfield might recognize the summons, 
three venerable men were to claim audience of him. The 
chief among them — a dignified and majestic person arrayed, 
it may be supposed, in the flowing garments of an ancient 
sage — would be the bearer of a wand or prophet’s rod. 
With this wand or rod or staff the venerable sage would 
trace a certain figure in the air, and then proceed to make 
known his Heaven-instructed message, which, if obeyed, must 
lead to glorious results. 

With this proud fate before him, in the flush of his 

imaginative youth Ralph Cranfield had set forth to seek the 
maid, the treasure, and the venerable sage with his gift of 

extended empire. And had he found them ? Alas ! it was 

not with the aspect of a triumphant man who had achieved 
a nobler destiny than all his fellows, but rather with the- 
gloom , of one struggling against peculiar and continual ad- 
versity, that he now passed homeward to his mother’s 
cottage. He had come back, but only for a time, to lay 

5* 

aside the pilgrim’s staff, trusting that his weary manhood 
would regain somewhat of the elasticity of youth in the 

spot where his threefold fate had been foreshown him. 
There had been few changes in the village, for it was not 
one of those thriving places where a year’s prosperity 
makes more than the havoc of a century’s decay, but, like 
a gray hair in a young man’s head, an antiquated little 
town full of old maids and aged elms and moss-grown 
dwellings.. Few seemed to be the changes here. The 
drooping elms, indeed, had a more majestic spread, the 
weather-blackened houses were adorned with a denser 
thatch of verdant moss, and doubtless there were a few 
more gravestones in the burial-ground inscribed with 
names that had once been familiar in the village street; yet. 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 


535 


summing up all the mischief that ten years had wrought, it 
seemed scarcely more than if Ralph Cranfield had gone 
forth that very morning and dreamed a day-dream till the 
twilight, and then turned back again. But his heart grew 
cold because the village did not remember him as he re~ 
membered the village. 

“ Here is the change,” sighed he, striking his hand upon 
his breast. “ Who is this man of thought and care, weary 
with world-wandering, and heavy with disappointed hopes? 
The youth returns not who went forth so joyously.” 

And now Ralph Cranfield was at his mother’s gate, in 
front of the small house where the old lady, with slender 
but sufficient means, had kept herself comfortable during 
her son’s long absence. Admitting himself within the en- 
closure, he leaned against a great old tree, trifling with 
his own impatience as people often do in those intervals 
when years are summed into a moment. He took a minute 
survey of the dwelling — its windows brightened with the 
sky-gleam, its doorway with the half of a millstone for a 
step, and the faintly-traced path waving thence to the gate. 
He made friends again with his childhood’s friend — the 
old tree against which he leaned — and, glancing his eye 
down its trunk, beheld something that excited a melan- 
choly smile. It was a half-obliterated inscription — the 
Latin word “Effode” — which he remembered to have 
carved in the bark of the tree with a whole day’s toil when 
he had first begun to muse about his exalted destiny. It 
might be accounted a rather singular coincidence that the 
bark just above the inscription had put forth an excres- 
cence shaped not unlike a hand, with the forefinger point- 
ing obliquely at the word of fate. Such, at least, was its 
appearance in the dusky light. 


536 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


“ Now, a credulous man/’ said Ralph Cranfield, care- 
lessly, to himself, “ might suppose that the treasure which 
I have sought round the world lies buried, after all, at 
the very door of my mother’s dwelling. That would be 
a jest indeed.” 

More he thought not about the matter, for now the door 
was opened, and an elderly woman appeared on the thresh- 
old, peering into the dusk to discover who it might be that 
had intruded on her premises and was standing in the 
shadow of her tree. It was Ralph Cranfield’s mother. 
Pass we over their greeting, and leave the one to her joy 
and the other to his rest — if quiet rest he found. 

But when morning broke, he arose with a troubled brow, 
for his sleep and his wakefulness had alike been full ol 
dreams. All the fervor was rekindled with which he had 
burned of yore to unravel the threefold mystery of his 
fate. The crowd of his early visions seemed to have 
awaited him beneath his mother’s roof and thronged riot- 
ously around to welcome his return. In the well-remem- 
bered chamber, on the pillow where his infancy had slum- 
bered, he had passed a wilder night than ever in an Arab 
tent or when he had reposed his head in the ghastly shades 
of a haunted forest. A shadowy maid had stolen to his 
bedside and laid her finger on the scintillating heart; a 
hand of flame had glowed amid the darkness, pointing 
downward to a mystery within the earth ; a hoary sage 
had waved his prophetic wand and beckoned the dreamer 
onward to a chair , of state. The same phantoms, though 
fainter in the daylight, still flitted about the cottage and 
mingled among the crowd of familiar faces that were 
drawn thither by the news of Ralph Cranfield’s return to 
bid him welcome for his mother’s sake. There they found 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 


537 


him, a tall, dark, stately man of foreign aspect, courteous 
in demeanor and mild of speech, yet with an abstracted eye 
which seemed often to snatch a glance at the invisible. 

Meantime, the widow Cranfield went bustling about the 
house full of joy that she again had somebody to love and 
be careful of, and for whom she might vex and tease her- 
self with the petty troubles of daily life. It was nearly 
noon when she looked forth from the door and descried 
three personages of note coming along the street through 
the hot sunshine and the masses of elmtree shade. At 
length they reached her gate and .undid the latch. 

“See, Ralph!” exclaimed she, with maternal pride, 
“ here is Squire Hawkwood and the two other selectmen 
coming on purpose to see you. Now, do tell them a good 
long story about what you have seen in foreign parts.” 

The foremost of the three visitors, Squire Hawkwood 
was a very pompous but excellent old gentleman, the head 
and prime-mover in all the affairs of the village, and uni- 
versally acknowledged to be one of the sagest men on 
earth. He wore, according to a fashion even then becom- 
ing antiquated, a three-cornered hat, and carried a silver- 
headed cane the use of which seemed to be rather for 
flourishing in the air than for assisting the progress of his 
legs. His two companions were elderly and respectable 
1 yeomen who, retaining an ante-Revolutionary reverence 
for rank and hereditary wealth, kept a little in the squire’s 
rear. 

As they approached along the pathway Ralph Cranfield 
sat in an oaken elbow-chair half unconsciously gazing at 
the three visitors and enveloping their homely figures in 
[ the misty romance that pervaded his mental world. 
“Here,” thought he, smilipg.at the conceit — “here come 


538 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


three elderly personages, and the first of the three is a 
venerable sage with a staff. What if this embassy should 
bring me the message of my fate?” 

While Squire Hawkwood and his colleagues entered, . 
Ralph rose from his seat and advanced a few steps to re- ' 
ceive them, and his stately figure and dark countenance 
as he bent courteously toward his guests had a natural 
dignity contrasting well with the bustling importance of 
the squire. The old gentleman, according to invariable 
custom, gave an elaborate preliminary flourish with his 
cane in the air, then removed his three-cornered hat in 
order to wipe his brow, and finally proceeded to make - 
known his errand. 

“ My colleagues and myself,” began the squire, “ are 
burdened with momentous duties, being jointly selectmen 
of this village. Our minds for the space of three days past 
have been laboriously bent on the selection of a suitable 
person to fill a most important office and take upon him- 
self a- charge and rule which, wisely considered, may be 
ranked no lower than those of kings and potentates. And 
whereas you, our native townsman, are of good natural 
intellect and well cultivated by foreign travel, and that 
certain vagaries and'fantasies of your youth are doubtless 
long ago corrected — taking all these matters, I say, into 
due consideration, we are of opinion that Providence hath 
sent you hither at this juncture for our very purpose.” 

During this harangue Cranfield gazed fixedly at the , 
speaker, as if he beheld something mysterious and un- 
earthly in his pompous little figure, and as if the squire 
had worn the flowing robes of an ancient sage instead of a 
square-skirted coat, flapped waistcoat, velvet breeches and 
silk stockings. Nor was hjs wonder without sufficient 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 


00 - 


cause, for the flourish of the squire’s staff, marvellous to 
relate, had described precisely the signal in the air which 
was to ratify the message of the prophetic sage whom 
Cranfield had sought around the world. 

“ And what,” inquired Ralph Cranfield, with a tremor in 
his voice — “what may this office be which is to equal me 
with kings and potentates?” 

. “ No less than instructor of our village school,” answered 
Squire Hawkwood, “ the office being now vacant by the 
death of the venerable Master Whitaker after a fifty years’ 
incumbency.” 

“ I will consider of your proposal,” replied Ralph Cran- 
field, hurriedly, “ and will make known my decision within 
three days.” 

After a few more words the village dignitary and his 
companions took their leave. But to Cranfield’s fancy 
their images were still present, and became more and more 
invested with the dim awfulness of figures which had first 
appeared to him in a dream, and afterward had shown 
themselves in his waking moments, assuming homely as- 
pects among familiar things. His mind dwelt upon the 
features of the squire till they grew confused with those of 
the visionary sage, and one appeared but the shadow of the 
other. The same visage, he now thought, had looked 
forth upon him from the Pyramid of Cheops; the same 
form had beckoned to him among the colonnades of the 
Alhambra; the same figure had mistily * revealed itself 
through the ascending steam of the Great Geyser. At 
every effort of his memory he recognized some trait of the 
dreamy messenger of destiny in this pompous, bustling, 
self-important, little-greaf man of the village. Amid such 
musings Ralph Cranfield sat all day in the cottage, scarcely 


540 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 


hearing and vaguely answering his mother's thousand 
questions about his travels and adventures. At sunset he 
roused himself to take a stroll, and, passing the aged elm 
tree, his eye was again caught by the semblance of a hand 
pointing downward at the half-obliterated inscription. 

As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the 
level sunbeams threw his shadow far before him, and he 
fancied that, as his shadow walked among distant objects, 
so had there been a presentiment stalking in advance of 
him throughout his life. And when he drew near each 
object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still 
it proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his 
infancy and youth. Every crook in the pathway was 
remembered. Even the more transitory characteristics ot 
the scene were the same as in by-gone days. A company 
of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed 
him with their fragrant breath. “ It is sweeter,” thought 
he, “ than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from 
the Spice Islands.” The round little figure of a child rolled 
from a doorway and lay laughing almost beneath Cran- 
field’s' feet. The dark and stately man stooped down, and, 
lifting the infant, restored him to his mother’s arms. 
“ The children,” said he to himself, and sighed and smiled, 
“the children are to be my charge.” And while a flow of 
natural feeling gushed like a well-spring in his heart he 
came to a dwelling which he could nowise forbear to enter. 
A sweet voice which seemed to come from a deep and 
tender soul was warbling a plaintive little air within. He 
bent his head and passed through the lowly door. As his 
foot sounded upon the threshold a young woman advanced 
from the dusky interior of the house, at first hastily, and 
then with a more uncertain step, till they met face to face. 


THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 


541 


There was a singular contrast in their two figures — he 
dark and picturesque, one who had battled with the world, 
whom all suns had shone upon, and whom all winds had 
blown on a varied course; she neat, comely and quiet — 
quiet even in her agitation — as if all her emotions had 
been subdued to the peaceful tenor of her life. Yet their 
faces all unlike as they were, had an expression that 
seemed not so alien — a glow of kindred feeling flashing 
upward anew from half-extinguished embers. 

“ You are welcome home,” said Faith Egerton. 

But Cranfield did not immediately answer, for his eye 
had been caught by an ornament in the shape of a heart 
which Faith wore as a brooch upon her bosom. The 
material was the ordinary white quartz, and he recollected 
having himself shaped it out of one of those Indian arrow- 
heads which are so often found in the ancient haunts of the 
red men. It was precisely on the pattern of that worn by 
the visionary maid. When Cranfield departed on his 
shadowy search, he had bestowed this brooch, in a gold 
setting, as a parting gift to Faith Egerton. 

“ So, Faith, you have kept the heart?” said he at length. 

“ Yes,” she said, blushing deeply; then, more gayly, “And 
what else have you brought me from beyond the sea?” 

“ Faith,” replied Ralph Cranfield, uttering the fated 
words by an uncontrollable impulse, “ I have brought you 
nothing but a heavy heart. May I rest its weight on 
you? ” 

“ This token which I have worn so long,” said Faith, 
laying her tremulous finger on the heart, “ is the assurance 
that you may.” 

“ Faith, Faith!” cried Cranfield, clasping her in his 
arms; “you have interpreted my wild and weary dream!” 


542 


TWICE-TOLD TALES 

/ 

Yes, the wild dreamer was awake at last. To find the 
mysterious treasure he was to till the earth around his 
mother’s dwelling and reap its products; instead of warlike 
command or regal or religious sway, he was to rule over 
the village children, and now the visionary maid had faded 
from his fancy, and in her place he saw the playmate of 
his childhood. 

Would all who cherish such wild wishes but look around 
them, they would oftenest find their sphere of duty, of pros- 
perity and happiness, within those precincts and in that sta- 
tion where Providence itself has cast their lot. Happy they 
who read the riddle without a weary world-search or a life- 
time spent in vain! 







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APPENDIX 


(Adapted largely from the Teacher’s Manual for the Study of 
English Classics , by George L. Marsh) 

HELPS TO STUDY 
Hawthorne’s Life 

Tell the most important facts regarding Hawthorne’s ances- 
tors (p. 9). Where did the family live (p. 11) ? What impor- 
tant influences did Hawthorne’s ancestry and his early home 
have upon his work? 

• Where was he educated? What persons afterward famous 
were his schoolmates in college (p. 12) ? 

What did Hawthorne do after graduation from college? 
What small government position did he hold (p. 15) ? (Com- 
pare Burns’s position as excise commissioner.) 

In what interesting communistic experiment did Hawthorne 
have a share? What book later resulted from this? 

After his marriage where did he live (p. 15) ? What book is 
the product of these next years? Name some important literary 
men who were friends of Hawthorne at this time. 

What was Hawthorne’s first long romance (p. 16)? The re- 
sult of its publication? 

Name his other novels written in America in the order of 
their publication. 

What diplomatic position did Hawthorne hold (p. 17)? 
What romance resulted from his sojourn in Italy? 

Did he do any literary work after returning to America? 

When did he die? 

Describe his most noteworthy personal qualities. 

Perry Pictures 11-14 inclusive, and 7250 52, are of Hawthorne 
and places associated with him. 

545 


546 


APPENDIX 


His Work 

What is Hawthorne’s rank among American authors as to 
style and workmanship (p. 32) ? 

What is the literary value of his Note-Books (p. 19, etc.) ? 

Which are regarded as the greatest of his romances? Which 
the more pleasant? 

What is said to be the special theme of his imagination (p. 9) ? 

Twice-Told Tales — In General 

Did the Twice-Told Tales appear in book form all at once? 
When? Had any been previously printed? Where? 

What was Hawthorne’s literary reputation before and after 
their appearance (pp. 21, 22) ? What able writer of tales re- 
viewed them favorably? 

What autobiographical element is there in the Twice-Told 
Tales (pp. 25 If.) ? Point out specific illustrations. 

What stories are related in the first person? What different 
persons or things does the author impersonate? What is the 
effect? 

What stories in this volume deal in any way with New Eng- 
land history? Which historical stories (if any) are literally 
true? Which are true in spirit? 

Make a list of the parts of Twice-Told Tales which are mere 
descriptive sketches, and of those which may properly be called 
stories. 

What can you say of Hawthorne ’s mastery of artistic descrip- 
tion? How did he acquire it (pp. 22-24)? Find good exam- 
ples in stories other than the sketches listed on page 22. 

The sketches are valuable for study of style, diction, ease and 
variety of sentence structure, lightness and delicacy of fancy, 
etc. Subjects resembling some of Hawthorne’s are excellent 
theme subjects for young students; for instance, an account of 
the meeting of an old year with a new year, or the soliloquy of 
a garden gate (cf. 11 A Rill from the Town Pump”). 

Are there any of the stories proper which contain no allegory ? 
Any in which the allegory is unpleasantly obtrusive? WhWi 
of the allegorical stories do you find most effective? Why? 


APPENDIX 


547 


In view of the fact that in his review of Twic?-Told Tales Poe 
wrote what is regarded as the first and fundamental statement 
of the principles of the artistic short story, it will be useful to 
study Hawthorne’s stories with the main parts of Poe’s state- 
ment in mind, as follows: 

“The tale proper, in my opinion, affords unquestionably the 
fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be 
afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. . . . Were I called 
upon ... to designate that class of composition which, next to 
such a poem as I have suggested [a rhymed poem, not to exceed 
in length what might be perused in an hour], should best fulfill 
the demands of high genius — should offer it the most advan- 
tageous field of exertion — I should unhesitatingly speak of the 
prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne has here exemplified it. I allude 
to the short prose narrative requiring from a half-hour to one or 
two hours in its perusal. ... A skilful literary artist has con- 
structed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to 
accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliber- 
ate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he 
then invents such incidents — he then combines such events as 
may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If 
his very initial sentence tends not to the outbringing of this 
effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole compo- 
sition there should be no word written, of which the tendency,, 
direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And 
by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length 
painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it 
with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea, 
of the tale has been presented unblemished, because undisturbed; 
and this is an end unattainable by the novel. . . . Some of the 
finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the field of this spe- 
cies of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the moun- 
tain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the 
domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but 
infinitely more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of 
mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his. 
theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and 
expression — (the ratiocinative, for example, the sarcastic or the 


548 


APPENDIX 


humorous) which are not only antagonistical to the nature of 
the poem, but absolutely forbidden by one of its most peculiar 
and indispensable adjuncts; we allude, of course, to rhythm.” 

Do you find any one of the stories proper in Twice-Told Tales 
that does not have one clearly defined central idea, or produce 
one impression, such as Poe’s statement of principles for the 
short story demands? Formulate as briefly as you can the cen- 
tral idea of each story. 

Point out all the matter in any story that is not used some- 
how in the development of the central idea or impression. 

In what ways do you find these stories realistic? Which ones 
deal in a natural way with the life of Hawthorne’s own time? 

Do you find the tone or subject matter of the stories so little 
varied as to become monotonous? Does the evenness and 
smoothness of the style ever grow monotonous to you? Does 
the style ever lack animation? 

Which, if any, of these stories would you call morbid? 

Which contain effective pathos? Humor? Sarcasm? 

How many of the stories proper plunge immediately into nar- 
rative? In what ways do the others begin? Is such a begin- 
ning as that of “ David Swan,” “ Fancy’s Show Box,” or 
“The Threefold Destiny” effective? Answer with reasons. 


Twice-Told Tales — In Particular 

THE GRAY CHAMPION 

Note the historical basis and how Hawthorne departed from 
it (pp. 35, 36). Is there any unnecessary exposition of the 
condition of New England? Prove by specific quotation the 
editor’s statement as to what the Champion typifies (p. 35). 

THE WEDDING KNELL 

What explanation of Mr. Ellenwood’s action at the wedding 
is hinted at in the introductory account of him (pp. 55 ff.) ? Is 
his treatment of Mrs. Dabney justified? 


APPENDIX 


549 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 

Make a simple and clear statement of the meaning of this 
story, as brief as possible without omission of anything essen- 
tial. Why is it called a parable? Note how, in the account of 
the funeral, after telling of the shuddering of the corpse, pre- 
sumably at sight of the minister’s face behind the veil, Haw- 
thorne immediately mitigates the supernatural, or casts doubt 
on it, by adding the words: “A superstitious old woman was 
the only witness of this prodigy” (p. 71). What double effect 
is thus produced? Mention similar devices in other stories, for 
instance by Irving. 

THE MAY-POLE OF MERRY MOUNT 

Is the historical matter on pages 88 to 91 necessary to the 
story? Has it qualities that make it desirable in any way? 

• 

THE GENTLE BOY 

Does the Boy seem natural, talk naturally (it is necessary to 
make some allowances for the time and the sect) ? Would the 
story end properly, plausibly, if the Boy were permitted to live? 

MR. HIGGINBOTHAM’S CATASTROPHE 

Is there any flaw in die working out of the plot of this story? 
^.ny allegorical or other veiled meaning? 

LITTLE ANNIE’S RAMBLE 

Is this a story ? Was it written for story interest or for some 
other purpose? Is one held by the action, the events that take 
place, or by something else? 

WAKEFIELD 

Why, in your opinio^ did this story appeal particularly to 
Poe? Is the interest in the story or in the character? 

. A RILL FROM THE TOWN PUMP 

What effects are produced by the use of the first person? 


550 


APPENDIX 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 

Do the characters all seem real, or are some of them mere 
qualities personified? What is the Great Carbuncle? Compare 
this story with “The Great Stone Face. Why were Matthew 
and Hannah the only successful searchers? Point out details 
that seem unnatural, or exaggerated for the -sake of the 
allegory. 

THE PROPHETIC PICTURES 

Point out all the hints of the catastrophe which you find in 
the course of the story. Comment on the conclusion. What 
does the story mean? 


DAVID SWAN 

Is this a story? What would you call it? What does Haw- 
thorne call it? 


THE HOLLOW OF THE THREE HILLS 

What, in outline, is the story here ? What, precisely, has hap- 
pened to the lady? Do you agree with Poe’s opinion of this 
story (p. 234) ? 

y* 

THE VISION OF THE FOUNTAIN 

Is the realistic explanation sufficient and consistent? 

DR. HEIDEGGER’S EXPERIMENT 

What has the quotation from the American Note-BooTcs (p. 
264) to do with the story? 

See Types of the Short Story, Lake Classics (pp. 233, 234), 
for useful hints as to this story as an apologue. 

HOWE’S MASQUERADE 

Where does the real story begin? Is what precedes introduc- 
tory to this story any more than to the other “Legends of 'ti < 
Province House”? 


APPENDIX 


551 


LADY ELEANORE’s MANTLE 

Compare with Poe’s “ Masque of the Red Death.” In what 
different ways is attention directed to the mantle? Is there 
any preparation for the horrible power which it is shown to 
have? Does the natural explanation of this power detract in 
any way from the force of the story ? 

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 

What does this heroine typify? 

THE AMBITIOUS GUEST 

What warning is there of the catastrophe? In how many 
different ways is ironical, blind unconsciousness of the danger 
brought outf What effect has this on the tragedy of the 
story? What details might Hawthorne have got from the ac- 
count on pages 364, 365? State briefly the most important parts 
of the story that are wholly his. In books on the short story, 
“The Ambitious Guest” has been much used as a model for 
choice oP details, structure, and general technique. It will repay 
very careful study in these regards. 

THE SISTER- YEARS 

Did Hawthorne really “forget to mention,” as he says on 
page 377? 

THE WHITE OLD MAID 

Is there any attempt, or pretense of an attempt, to rationalize 
this story? 

PETER GOLDTHWAITE ’S TREASURE 

What story of Irving’s does this slightly resemble? Point 
out similarities and differences. 

CHIPPINGS WITH A CHISEL 

This is not really a story, though it consists largely of narra- 
tive. Why is this? Could you say that it contains the germs 
of a number of stories? 


552 


APPENDIX 


THE SHAKER BRIDAL 

What admirable characteristic of manner do you find (at the 
end, for instance), which is particularly suited to the nature 
of this story? 

ENDICOTT AND THE RED CROSS 

Note the relation of details here to more important work of 
Hawthorne (pp. 487, 488). 

THE lily’s QUEST 

What do the other characters besides Gascoigne (whose meau- 
ing is stated by Hawthorne) symbolize? 

THE THREEFOLD DESTINY 

Is the working out of the destinies reasonable? Plausible? 


THEME SUBJECTS 

1. Hawthorne’s life (pp. 9-17). 

2. Character sketch of Hawthorne (pp. 18-20). 

3. The “ Brook Farm” experiment and Hawthorne’s part 
in it. (See The Blithedale Romance, biographies of Hawthorne, 
and books on the experiment.) 

4. Autobiographical hints in Twice-Told Tales (p. 25). 

5. New England history as reflected in this volume (pp. 35, 
83, 97, etc.). 

6. The historical basis of “The Gray Champion” (pp. 
35-37). 

7. An account of some strange wedding, or other ceremonial, 
known to or imagined by the student. (Cf. pp. 55-65.) 

8. “The Minister ’s Black Veil” as “a parable” (or alle- 
gory) ; its meaning. 

9. Festivities of May-Day (pp. 83 ff.). (How far pre- 
served today; comparison with old English observances.) 

10. A defense of the revellers of Merry Mount. 

11. Puritan persecutions of the Quakers (pp. 97 ff.). 

12. A different ending for “The Gentle Boy.” 


- *. ■ - ■- - ■■ . • J. 


APPENDIX 553 

13. The story of the murder of Mr. Higginbotham (from 
the point of view of the intended murderers.) 

14. A runaway child in — (the student’s own town) ; cf. pp. 
152-61. 

15. Another version of the story of Wakefield (pp. 162-73). 

16. The soliloquy of a garden gate (or some other subject 
suggested by pp. 174 ff.). 

17. The Indian legend of the Great Carbuncle — as gleaned 
from Hawthorne’s story (pp. 182 ff.) and any other available 
sources. 

18. Explanation of the meaning of “The Prophetic Pic- 
tures” (pp. 200-217). 

19. Development of one of the possibilities suggested by 
Hawthorne for David Swan (or additional things that might 
have happened to David during his sleep). 

20. The story of the lady in “The Hollow of the Three 
Hills” (pp. 234-40). 

21. An original story of the finding of the fountain of 
youth. (Make it different from 1 1 Dr. Heidegger ’s Experiment, ’ ’ 
pp. 264-276.) 

22 . Comparison of “Lady Eleanore’s Mantle” and Poe’s 
1 1 Masque of the Eed Death. ’ ’ 

23. Preparation for the catastrophe in 1 1 The Ambitious 
Guest” (pp. 366-76). 

24. The story of “The Ambitious Guest” on the assump- 
tion that the hero escaped from the slide. 

25. Peter Goldthwaite and Wolfert Webber. 

26. A morning on the beach (cf. pp. 507 ff.). 

27. Hawthorne’s special theme is “the soul in contact with 
sin” (p. 9). Give examples and discuss. 


554 


APPENDIX 


SUGGESTIONS FOR CLASS READING 

1. “The Gray Champion’ ’ (pp. 36-46). 

2. “The Minister’s Black Veil” (pp. 74-82). 

3. “The May-Pole of Merry Mount” (pp. 83-89). 

4. The interrupted meeting (pp. 109-15). 

5. Ilbrahim and the children (pp. 120-25). 

6. Ilbrahim ’s mother reappears (pp. 131-35). 

7. , “Little Annie’s Ramble” (pp. 152-61). 

8. ' “Wakefield” (pp. 162-73). 

9. “A Rill from the Town Pump’* (pp. 174-81). 

10. The searchers for the Great Carbuncle (pp. 183-86). 

11. How Matthew and Hannah found the Carbuncle (pp. 
191-95). 

12. “David Swan” (pp. 218-25). 

13. “The Hollow of the Three Hills” (pp.* 234-40). 

14. “The Vision of the Fountain” (pp. 249-55). 

15. “Dr. Heidegger’s Experiment” (pp. 268-76). 

16. “Howe’s Masquerade” (pp. 285-93). 

17. “Lady Eleanore’s Mantle” (pp. 317-18, 321-28). 

18. “The Ambitious Guest” (pp. 367-76). 

19. “The Sister-Years” (pp. 377-85). 

20. “The White Old Maid” (pp. 419-27). 

21. “The Shaker Bridal” (pp. 469-76). 

22. ‘ ‘ The Lily ’s Quest ’ ’ (pp. 495-504). 










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